Budapest
by theicemenace
Summary: What really happened in Budapest and why do Hawkeye and Black Widow have very different memories? This is one version of what might have happened.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Here is the promised story of what happened in Budapest. Or at least my version of it. Hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything to do with the Avengers, Marvel or any of their characters except for the DVD. I'm just playing with them for a while. If I had a position of authority within the franchise, Hawkeye and Black Widow would already have their own movies as would Ruffalo as Bruce Banner. The OCs do belong to me though.

Many thanks to ladygris and Lady Pandora for the tag-team Beta.

**Spoiler:** For _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_

Namaste,

Sunny (Formerly Sandy)

**Avengers**

**Budapest**

**Chapter 1**

**Budapest, Hungary**

**SHIELD Safe House**

**Several Years Ago**

Budapest, Hungary was much like any other big city on Earth. The affluent separated themselves from those less fortunate, as if being middle class or poor would rub off on them. Not that all wealthy individuals thought the same, but for the most part, they only associated with those they considered below their station in a service capacity, and only because they had to.

Having spent much of his life prior to joining SHIELD in the service industry with the circus, Clint Barton often felt like punching a few rich people in the nose, thereby ruining some plastic surgeon's hard work. It would give him immense pleasure, but wouldn't help with the mission. Though, if someone else started a fight, Clint would be more than happy to get in a few licks of his own.

It was well after midnight and Clint sat in the dark pounding on the computer's keyboard, occasionally swearing in between heavy sighs of annoyance. The light from the monitor flickered over his features in random patterns like an old-time movie, his retentive brain cataloging the information displayed for use during the mission he shared with his partner, Natasha Romanoff.

Hitting several keys, he transferred photos and documents to the wall-mounted monitor so he could stand. He thought best on his feet, and if his brain needed lubrication, he could get it by pacing. While the information transferred, Clint went into the kitchen for coffee and a donut.

First order of business was to create a list of the players. The protagonist in the upcoming drama was John Smith, a dealer in weapons stolen from military bases around the world, and he didn't much care who owned them. Every country was fair game as far as he was concerned. The man went by a generic American name, though no one was completely certain what country he called home. He spoke many languages fluently, and his speaking voice gave away nothing of his background. Smith surrounded himself with men and women just as ruthless as he, including his local contact who had a reputation as pillar of the community.

His vital statistics were listed down the right side of the screen. Smith was six-two with short black hair, blue eyes, straight white teeth and a square jaw. He weighed around two-twenty, most of it muscle. Staring at Smith's photograph, Clint had to admit that even _he_ found the man ruggedly handsome.

Smith's most trusted right-hand man went by the name Tucker. SHIELD's best people couldn't determine if Tucker was his first or last name. Of average height, weight and coloring, Tucker would be difficult to pick out of a crowd. In Clint's opinion, that made him even more dangerous than Smith.

From down the hall, he heard the bed springs creak as Natasha rolled over in her sleep. Soon, it would be her turn on watch and he could get some shut-eye.

With his attention diverted, Clint wondered when his infatuation with the seductive Russian had turned into something more and less at the same time. From the moment he'd been given the assignment to assassinate her, Clint had been captivated by her sparkling hazel eyes, auburn hair and curvy, petite figure. In heels, she came up to his ear. The exact height for him to drape an arm around her shoulders and for hers to hold onto his waist without putting undo stress on either of them. She was the perfect blend of innocence and danger that Clint liked in a woman. Why he hadn't acted on his feelings before they changed, he didn't know. It was more than the "hands off" vibe he'd gotten from her after they were partnered by Coulson. He still felt the pull of sexual attraction when near her, and sensed that she felt the same, yet neither of them had ever made an attempt to cross that line. Some days he wanted to kick himself for not taking the chance, and other times, he was relieved that they hadn't gone that route. At the moment, Clint was in a quid pro quo arrangement with Hill, and was getting the sense that it would be ending soon. Then, he would be alone again. _Story of my ******* life._

With a sigh, he turned his attention back to the job. Using his forefinger, he dragged Smith and Tucker out of the way so he could go over his cover one last time.

Sebastian Graham was the author of two novels in the political thriller genre that had only moderate success in English speaking countries, and so was not translated for sale world-wide. He was in Budapest to do research for his third novel in the series, hoping that dropping the publishing company's name would open the right doors to get him invited to the event where he was scheduled to meet Smith. There, they would make arrangements for Clint to purchase Smith's most recent cache of weapons stolen from a secret American military base in Slovakia. As the base didn't appear on any list anywhere, the theft had to have been facilitated by someone inside the command structure. Unfortunately, everyone at the base had come through the background check clean. So, SHIELD's people either missed something-an unlikely scenario, or he or she had covered their tracks so well they appeared innocent.

Tomorrow, Clint was to meet with a contact who said he could get the agent onto the list of guests for the party. The chance was slim, but it was all they had at the moment. His only other option was to pose as one of the serving staff, make himself known to Smith and Tucker, and hope for the best.

The alarm on Clint's watch beeped, signaling that it was time to wake Natasha. He left the mission info up for his partner and went down the hall. He rapped lightly on the door, but there was no response. Clint leaned close to the door, listening for any indication that Natasha had heard his knock. Turning the knob, he eased the door open, whispering, "Nat?"

There was a whoosh-thunk, and Clint turned to the left to see a knife stuck into the wall next to his head. Another couple of inches to the right and it would've entered his head through the left eye socket. He followed the flight path back to where Natasha sat on the side of the bed glaring at him.

He pulled the knife from the wall and waited for her to come to him then held the knife out hilt first. "You wake up cranky, don't you, Nat?"

She snatched the knife from his hand as she edged around him into the hall. "Don't _call_ me that, _eblan._"

With an impertinent grin, he said, "Love you too," and closed the door in her face. He toed off his shoes and lay down on the bed with a groan. After being up for more than thirty-four hours, he was asleep within moments.

**The Next Afternoon**

A large crowd was gathered around a police barricade in front of a bookstore, whispering and taking photos.

_Jackals_, Clint thought. _A man is dead and they act like it's a celebrity photo-op._

But Clint knew the answer. People are fascinated by the tragedy of others because, deep inside, they're glad it's not them. Or they just want to be the first to tell others about it. Whatever.

Clint covered his head with the hood of his sweatshirt and carefully moved to the front. About twenty feet away lay a body draped with a sheet next to a car with the door open. Thankfully, someone had removed the keys to stop the dinging. The car belonged to his contact, he was certain. There couldn't be two of that make, model and year with an identical dent on the driver's side front fender.

A man in a jumpsuit carrying a case knelt beside the body and lifted the sheet. He made a quick examination then directed his assistants to take the body away. As they were putting the body on the stretcher, the right arm was uncovered by a gust of wind showing a gold ring on the third finger. His contact's code name was White Falcon, but Clint called him Danny for his last name, Danos, and because his first name was difficult to pronounce. His friend didn't mind the nickname. In fact, he liked it so much, he began using it with others as well.

When a uniformed officer came near, Clint called out to him. "_Elnézést_. What happened here?"

"Are you a reporter?"

"No. I was supposed to meet someone at the bar across the street and he hasn't shown," Clint nodded. "That looks like his car."

The officer leaned close, his voice barely above a whisper. "The detective assigned to the case says it was a carjacking."

Taking his cue from the other man, Clint lowered his voice too. "But you don't think so."

"If they killed him for his car then why did they leave it behind?"

He watched Clint for some hint that he was lying, but the archer was good at his job. "Was the dead man's name Majoros, by any chance?" Clint already knew the answer, but it would look odd if he didn't ask.

"I can't give out his name until his relatives are contacted, but I _can_ tell you it wasn't Majoros."

"_Köszönöm_." Though he was sad at the loss of his friend, Clint had a higher priority at the moment. The illegally obtained weapons were destined for a band of rebels who would use them in their quest to take over their country's government. Such an event was doomed to failure, but that didn't mean they wouldn't try, and in the process, kill innocent bystanders.

Clint left the crowd, walking quickly in the direction of the safe house. He took out a burner phone and dialed, speaking in Russian. "Nat? Danny's been killed…Yeah, plan A is officially off the books. We need a plan B…That's what I was thinking…The staff is being provided by a café off the square. I'll go there and charm my way into a job then get assigned to the party…Ha. Ha. Ya know, that was funny the first couple of times. Not so much now…Love you too, Nat."

He ended the call then took the phone apart, dropping the pieces into the sewers as he went on to his destination by taking the long way around. The last thing to go was the SIM card, and that went into the Danube.

~~O~~

The sun had started its downward trek, dropping behind the buildings across the square with a single beam of light reaching out to touch the woman seated on the patio, glittering off of her artfully styled dark blonde hair and the lenses of her sunglasses. A slight breeze lifted the hair away from her face as she sipped iced tea and ignored the plate of mini desserts though they were her favorites.

Since her husband died, she hadn't been interested in many of the things she used to enjoy. Working in the garden was the only thing that had kept her from crying herself to sleep each night. And then, one day, she didn't need the exercise to stop the tears. Still, she kept gardening because she loved the feel of the earth in her hands and under her feet, the smell of the flowers and their blossoms bursting with color and life. Now if only she could find a way to feel that for herself. With a sigh, she went back to the novel she'd been reading while awaiting her guest.

Moments later, the light was blocked when someone moved in between her and the sun. Looking up, she saw the silhouette of a man, the light breeze blowing dark brown hair worn below the shoulders back from his face. He wore a white suit with an open-necked white shirt, white shoes without socks and no belt. The man obviously thought himself dashing. Elisabeta saw him as outdated and boring. She liked color, especially on men, even if that color was black.

"Elisabeth Kakos?"

Over the top of the sunglasses, Elisabeta gave him an appraising look. His hair looked like it hadn't been washed in several days, nor had he shaved losing him a few more points. He'd spoken in English, and she responded in kind. "And you are?"

"Ryland York from the escort agency. Ursola sent me." He smiled, and it rang false to Elisabeta because it didn't reach his eyes, which were an uninteresting shade of brown and glazed. In her experience, that meant he'd recently used illegal drugs. He also didn't keep eye contact leading her to believe he had something to hide aside from the drug use.

"Of course." She extended her hand, but he ignored it and flopped into a chair, slumped down on his spine with his legs splayed wide. Taking off her glasses, she set them on top of the book. "Ms. Poppa explained the situation?"

The server had seen him and came rushing over, speaking in Hungarian. "May I bring you something to drink, sir?"

York's phony smile turned into a scowl. "Don't understand what you're saying, babe. But you can bring me a beer. In the bottle, with a chilled glass."

Elisabeta quickly translated and the girl hurried away. When she'd passed out of earshot, Elisabeta turned an unreadable gaze on York. "I asked for someone who spoke our language."

He shook his head. "Wasn't one available. Besides, she wanted you to have the best." Spreading his hands out to the side, he grinned. "And that's _me_, honey. By the way, there's an additional charge if you want sex. Just the straight stuff. Anything off-the-wall we'll have to negotiate price. You know what I'm sayin'?"

With this being her first foray into the dating world since before she married Robert, Elisabeta had wanted everything to be perfect. If York was an example of the way men behaved toward women these days, then she'd best give up now. Getting to her feet, she waited and York belatedly stood as well. "My _name_ is _Elisabeta_. It is not _Elisabeth_ and it is _absolutely_ not _honey_. You have been unforgivably rude, not only to me, but to that young woman as well. Her position as a waitress does not give you leave to disrespect her." She looked down at the ground, took a deep breath then looked him in the eye. "This will not work. And rest assured, Mr. York, that I _will_ be speaking to Ursola about your appalling lack of manners."

At the start of her invective, York's mouth dropped open as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. For a long moment, he continued to stare at her then shrugged. "Psht. Whatever, sweet cheeks. I get paid regardless." He started away, turned back. "And with that attitude, no wonder you gotta pay a man to go out with you."

"I would rather be alone than in the company of someone who has so little regard for others." Elisabeta waited to resume her seat until after York had disappeared into the crowds muttering under his breath. Huffing, she replaced her sunglasses, grabbed the bottle of beer, poured it into the frosted glass, and drank down half of it in one long draft.

She reached for a pastry, nearly choking on it when a handsome man in his mid-thirties approached the café with purposeful strides.

Unlike York, this man had short hair, his goatee was neatly trimmed, and he'd bathed recently. Elisabeta didn't care much for facial hair on men, but somehow, it seemed right for this one. He was not especially tall, a little shorter than herself when in heels, she guessed. Still, he was quite good-looking. If his manners were acceptable then perhaps she could convince him to be her escort for her first social event since Robert's passing.

As the man neared her table, Elisabeta stood, blocking the way and giving him an inviting smile, again speaking in English. "Pardon me. Are you Ryland York?"

He seemed to think over his response before saying, "That depends."

"I'm Elisabeta Kakos, Ursola's friend." She gestured at the empty chair and he accepted the offer, waiting until she was seated to do the same. "Would you care for a drink, Mr. York?"

His entire demeanor changed, and he smiled though she sensed that it had nothing to do with her offer of a drink. Unlike the other man, his smile was genuine, his blue eyes sparkling with humor. "Ryland, please. Any friend of Ursola's is a friend of mine. And yes to the drink, Ms. Kakos."

Elisabeta signaled for the server again. This man, who was claiming to be someone she knew he wasn't, smiled at the girl. He cast a quick glance at the bottle and back to the girl, speaking in Hungarian, "I'll have one of these please. And a glass."

He winked at the girl, making her blush as she hurried away. When she was gone, he gave Elisabeta his full attention, propping the ankle of one leg on the knee of the other. She got the feeling that he'd ordered the beer because it was what she was drinking. Also in Hungarian, she asked, "_Beszél magyarul?_"

Ryland's left eyebrow raised in a small gesture of surprise as he responded in the same language, "_Igen, tudom._"

She switched to English. "Thank you for meeting me today. It wouldn't do for us to know nothing about each other when we're supposed to be a couple. The party is this Friday night at the home of my good friends, Benedek and Marja Szabo. We're expected at eight."

It may have been her imagination, but he seemed to show a little more interest now than in the beginning. The twinkle in his eyes showed great humor. "Black tie of course."

Inclining her head, she smiled ruefully. "I would expect nothing less for the social event of the season."

His drink was placed on the table and he spared another charming smile for the server. "_Köszönöm szépen_." He poured the beer, tilting the glass to minimize the amount of foam. "May I call you Elisabeta?"

"Please do, Ryland." Crossing her knees, Elisabeta reached for her glass and just held it. As he was taking a drink of the beer, his eyes spotted her wedding ring. Looking down at her left hand, her thumb toying with the rings, her smile faded somewhat. "My husband died five months ago. Aneurysm. He simply went to sleep one night and did not wake up in the morning."

"I'm sorry for your loss." The set of Ryland's shoulders relaxed just a bit. "It also explains why someone as attractive and…"

"Wealthy?"

He chuckled, took another drink and set the glass aside. "Someone as alluring as you shouldn't have any trouble attracting the attentions of the opposite sex, yet you've chosen to engage the services of an escort agency. Why?"

Before responding, Elisabeta took one last sip of beer, leaving the glass half full to indicate she didn't want a refill. "In the months since Robert died, I've not been to a social engagement aside from the tea parties I host in my garden once a month, and only my closest friends attend. Going to this event alone just doesn't feel right. Ursola came to dinner a few nights ago, unannounced as usual, and I confessed to her that I was afraid to go alone. The good friend that she is, Ursola promised to send someone to be, what do you Americans call it?"

Ryland laughed out loud this time. "Arm candy."

"Yes, that's it. A man who looks good in formal wear, is well-versed on many subjects, or is able to bluff his way through, and a charming raconteur."

The smile turned sheepish, almost embarrassed. "I promise to at least _try_ to be entertaining to your friends."

"Good. We should…"

"…work out the details of our imaginary relationship? Likes, dislikes, and so forth." He sipped his beer without taking his eyes off of her, making Elisabeta feel as if she were the only woman in the world. "If it works for you, we could have dinner together tonight, or lunch tomorrow. Then, on Friday, we can meet at your home. I'll get a cab. If you don't want to give me your address, I'll give you mine."

"Dinner tonight would be fine. Somewhere casual. For the party, I'll have the car pick you up and we'll go together from my apartment. As long as you understand that sex is _not_ a part of the plan, Ryland. I need a companion for this event. Nothing more."

The smirk was back, and Elisabeta suppressed a shiver at the intensity in his eyes.

"Then I still have time to change your mind." Dropping his foot to the ground, Ryland scooted his chair a few inches closer, leaning forward to take her hand, still with that impudent smile.

His palm and fingers were rough and calloused showing that he wasn't afraid of hard work, like her husband. She missed Robert very much, and having another man touch her so gently, yet with a kind of possessiveness that momentarily flustered her. However, she didn't allow it to show.

"Tell me, Elisabeta, what's your favorite flower?"

The way he said her name, elongating the middle syllable, oscillated over her nerves like a warm wind setting the leaves, and her nerves, aflutter. "Why?"

"Because a gentleman always brings a woman flowers on the first date."

Letting him keep possession of her hand, an enigmatic smile came to her lips as she attempted to match his boldness with her own. "Tell me, Ryland, are you _always_ such a gentleman?"

His left eyebrow arched again, and one side of his mouth turned upward. "You'll just have to wait until the fourth or fifth date to find out, won't you?"

The bold statement startled Elisabeta because of the sincerity behind it, increased by the sexy rumble of his voice. He acted as if they were a real courting couple and not one thrown together out of chance. And then, Ryland startled her again by turning her hand over and pressing a kiss to the center of her palm.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Here is the promised story of what happened in Budapest. Or at least my version of it. Hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything to do with the Avengers, Marvel or any of their characters except for the DVD. I'm just playing with them for a while. If I had a position of authority within the franchise, Hawkeye and Black Widow would already have their own movies as would Ruffalo as Bruce Banner. The OCs do belong to me though.

Many thanks to ladygris and Lady Pandora for the tag-team Beta.

**Spoiler:** For _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_

Namaste,

Sunny

**Avengers**

**Budapest**

**Chapter 2**

As Clint approached the café, all of his attention was focused on the mission. He _had_ to get into the party or hundreds, maybe thousands of people would be killed by the weapons Smith had stolen. The anti-personnel mines, used primarily in ambushes, were directional, fired by remote control, and shot a pattern of steel balls into the "kill zone." The anti-tank mines were designed to damage or destroy armored fighting vehicles. They typically had a much larger explosive charge, and a fuse designed to be triggered by vehicles. Tampering could also set them off. That didn't mean Smith's people, or those to whom he sold them, didn't have the expertise to rig them for other uses. Hell, Clint could do that himself. Nasty stuff.

Slowing down, he used breathing exercises to calm his mind so this part of plan B would work. If he seemed too tense or distracted, it could put off the woman he was here to see, the one he had to convince to hire him as staff for the party. His plan was to get in, pass out drinks and hors d'oeuvres until he spotted Smith, Tucker and Szabo then, he would take off the uniform covering his tuxedo and return to make contact as a buyer. Easy-peasy, right?

Clint snorted to himself. There were so many things that could go wrong with this plan, just like any other, but plan B _had_ to work because they didn't have a plan C. Well, they did, but it had a _very_ low chance of working.

_If only Danny hadn't been killed…_

But his friend _had_ been killed, and it would take more than the word of a Budapest homicide detective to convince him it was an accident. Everything that Clint had seen and knew about Danny said that he would rather give up the car than lose his life. And the unnie was right. If he complied with the carjacker, why was he killed and the car not taken? Once Danny was down, they were clear, but they'd left him in the street to die.

Danny and Clint had never spoken about their personal lives. By mutual silent agreement, the subject had been off limits, so he had no idea if Danny had a wife and kids, parents, siblings, or whatever. Clint at least had Natasha, Fury, Hill, and a few others that he thought of as his surrogate family.

_When this mission is over, I'll send money to his family, if he has one. Or pay for his funeral so he's not put in an unmarked grave. Danny was a good guy. He deserves to be remembered. Right now, I have to keep my mind on…_

Clint came to a stop when a woman stepped into his path. "Pardon me. Are you Ryland York?"

A little suspicious, he gave her his mildest once-over, liked what he saw and thought briefly about going back for seconds. He responded noncommittally, "That depends."

She introduced herself as Elisabeta Kakos and was apparently friends with someone by the name of Ursola. Clint had no idea who she was talking about, but he was intrigued by her audacity, especially when she gave him an appraising look over the top of her sunglasses. The least he could do was hear what she had to say.

He guessed her age at ten years older than himself, maybe more. She wore a thin deep purple V-neck sweater with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Light gray slacks and purple sandals with three inch heels finished off her chic outfit. On the table next to a nearly new paperback lay a small clutch handbag that matched the heels.

Her hair fell to just below her shoulders, the layers of dark blonde with lighter highlights framing her face were a perfect accompaniment to her blue-green eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes. She wore make-up subtly applied to enhance her innate beauty. Something she'd been liberally endowed with by nature. Clint knew facelifts, cheek implants and nose jobs when he saw them, and Elisabeta's facial structure hadn't been altered by a surgeon's knife. It was unlikely that the rest of her had any work done either. External appearances didn't matter to Clint as long as the woman had a beautiful inside. Hopefully, this woman had both.

He could recognize that she was a kind and compassionate person from the way she treated the young woman who served them. When he stated his intention to get her into bed, the smoldering heat he sensed when he held her hand had turned into a flame, showing him that underneath the warm exterior beat the heart of a supremely passionate woman who had never allowed that passion to be uncaged.

Clint would never take advantage of her physically, yet he had a sudden craving for one small taste of that passion, the way a runner craves water after a long workout. Keeping hold of her hand so she couldn't retreat, Clint turned her hand over and kissed the palm. He'd seen in an old movie, and the woman on the receiving end more than enjoyed it. He leaned back only far enough to see her eyes, and smiled. "You thought I was going to kiss you."

"We've only known each other for a few minutes. Not nearly enough time to decide if you like someone enough to be that close."

Retreating to his own chair to put space between them, Clint gave her his most disarming grin. "We were both thinking about it. Now that first moment of awkwardness is out of the way. Besides, we're supposed to be dating. It would look odd if we weren't affectionate in front of others."

~~O~~

Elisabeta lowered her lashes and bit her lip to stop a silly grin from appearing where Ryland could see it. "We do not…"

"Kiss? That's not true. And don't pretend you didn't enjoy it." He paused and one eyebrow crawled up his forehead a fraction of an inch, and though his grin didn't change, she got the idea that he was laughing at her. Suddenly noticing the pastries, Ryland-or whatever his real name was-snatched up one at random, popped the entire thing in his mouth, chewed and swallowed before continuing. "I'm sorry if I offended you." Ryland held up a hand for silence when she started to speak. "In spite of everything I know about your country's culture, I'm still American. And sometimes, that's exactly what you're going to get. If you can't handle that, then it's best if we end this now."

Elisabeta searched his expression for any indication that he was being disingenuous, and found none. She stood, and he did as well, her bag, book and sunglasses held out for her to take. Opening her purse, she withdrew a cell phone. Without being told, Ryland took the phone, entered his name and number, and handed it back. "Let me know where and when to meet you for dinner tonight."

As she made to pass him, he turned with her, his elbow stuck out, and she wrapped her fingers around the lower part of his bicep. At the curb, she exchanged a generous tip for the keys to an expensive convertible. Ryland handed her in and closed the door, giving her a jaunty salute as she drove away.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw him take out a cell phone and make a call before flagging down a cab. He got in, the cab made a U-turn and was lost in traffic. In a few minutes, Elisabeta arrived at home and was met at the door by her assistant, Anya. "So? How did it go?"

"It went fine. Ursola came through. I think Mr. York will do nicely."

Anya followed her down the long hallway to her room and inside. "Tell me about him. Is he handsome? Friendly? How old is he?"

Going into her closet, Elisabeta turned on the light and opened the door on the right at the back. She didn't want Anya to know what had actually happened at the café. "Handsome? Yes. Friendly? Very. As for age, he's several years my junior, but I got the sense that he has an old soul. He was audacious and very confident, yet it was tempered with respect and courtesy for others." She paused in sorting through her collection of evening gowns for a moment of reflection. "And underneath it all, I felt that he would be a formidable enemy if crossed."

Intrigued, Anya touched the side of the cabinet in the center of the closet. The top opened to show several expensive pieces of jewelry. "O-oh, so this Mr. York is what they call a 'bad boy'."

Chuckling, Elisabeta removed a gown and held it up in front of her for Anya's perusal. "Now that I think about it, yes. He's very much a bad boy, but one who knows how to be good when the situation calls for it."

Standing in front of the mirror holding a pair of sapphire earrings up to her ears to see how they would look on her, Anya must have seen something in her employer's face or heard it in her tone. "What did he _do?_"

Unable to stop herself from blushing, Elisabeta replaced the dress in her hand and pulled out another. "He kissed me."

"No! In public?"

"Yes. On the hand." She pulled out another dress, shook her head and replaced it. "It was a strange experience. I felt quite wicked, yet in a good way." Anya hugged her tightly. "What's that for?"

"It's about time you got out into the world again, and Mr. York sounds like the perfect man to help you do it. Your dress must be elegant yet alluring. So much so that he will be unable to resist when you take him into your bed."

At the look in Anya's eyes, Elisabeta gasped in pretend outrage. "Anya! I don't intend on sleeping with him. He's just…"

Anya draped a stunning emerald and diamond pendant around Elisabeta's neck. "A piece of jewelry to display for your friends so they won't know you're spending most of your days and all of your nights alone? Now _why_ don't I believe that?"

~~O~~

As Elisabeta drove away, Clint's cell phone rang. It could only be one person. "What?…It went _fine_…I'll be meeting with Smith and his cronies right on time. We'll intercept the weapons and only the bad guys will get hurt…Uh, no. Not going as one of the waiters…Because I found another way in, _moya sladkaya_…I have a date…She's a friend of the Szabos'…Elisabeta Kakos… I didn't come on to _her_. _She_ came on to _me_…Don't care _what_ you think…She and I are having dinner tonight, to get our stories straight, you know? How we met, how long we've known each other. That kind of thing…What? No! We're not gonna _sleep_ together…Hanging up now!"

Clint hit the end key, and flagged down a cab. "I need a tuxedo."

The driver nodded, turned on the meter and pulled away from the curb. Two hours later, Clint left the men's store with a garment bag over his shoulder. He wasn't far from the safe house so he walked, and as before, he took the phone apart and disposed of the pieces, careful not to do so in the same places as previous phones.

Natasha was out when he arrived at the safe house and he was glad he didn't have to listen to more of her teasing banter. Not that he couldn't hold his own. He just didn't have the time to spare until he left to meet Elisabeta at the restaurant.

While he'd been trying on his tux, he received a text from Elisabeta with the time and place for their dinner. If he rushed, he would just make it. He also knew the restaurant she'd chosen. It had a casual dress code as she said, but the atmosphere didn't allow for intimate conversations, so he made a few plans of his own. There was a place on the river that would work well. Now if only Elisabeta would trust him enough to take his suggestion.

After his shower, he dried quickly, dressed and combed his hair. He shoved his arms into the sleeves of his leather jacket just as Natasha was coming in. "Where are you going?"

"Out." Clint did one last hair check in the hall mirror. "Don't wait up," he said as he closed the door on her protest.

He ran to catch the trolley stopped at the corner, paid his fare and took a seat on the upper deck. When his stop came up, instead of signaling for the driver to stop, Clint slung his legs over the side. The driver slowed down for the red light and Clint jumped onto the sidewalk into a shoulder roll and back to his feet. Several people stopped to stare. Clint just grinned, shrugged his jacket back into place and ran a hand through his hair. He winked and smiled at one older lady who was leaning on the arm of a man the same age.

As he neared the restaurant, Clint saw Elisabeta just pulling up to the valet stand in the convertible, this time with the top up. He jogged the last half block, going to the driver's door, speaking to her in Hungarian. "Don't get out."

"Why?" Her puzzled glance didn't appear to contain suspicion for which he was thankful. That meant she trusted him.

"Because I have a better idea." Clint opened the door and extended his hand. Without a second thought, Elisabeta put hers into it. "I'll drive."

Reluctantly, she nodded. Clint walked her around to the passenger side, put her in and closed the door. Getting into the driver's seat, he located and engaged the control that put the top down.

"Ryland, what are you doing?"

"You like Italian?"

Elisabeta opened her mouth to protest, but what she said was, "Yes, of course. But…"

With a grin, Clint hooked his seat belt, adjusted the seat and mirror, put the car into first gear and revved the engine. "Hold on!"

The tires screeched as he accelerated away from the curb causing other cars to have to swerve to avoid being hit. Once they were on the road that ran alongside the river, he slowed down to make talking easier. "You're okay with this, right?"

Holding her hair with one hand, Elisabeta chuckled and leaned close so she wouldn't have to shout. "If I wasn't, you'd be in jail." He smiled and turned back toward the road. "Where are we going? I wasn't aware that there was an Italian restaurant along the river."

"It's a small place run by a family that emigrated from Italy about thirty years ago. Found it by accident the last time I was in Budapest."

Nodding, Elisabeta faced front again. "What's it called?"

"A Paradicsom Piros, The Red Tomato. I took the liberty of calling ahead. They don't take reservations, but they promised to hold their best table for us."

"The owners are friends of yours then."

"Sort of." Clint shrugged, not wanting her to know that he'd used the restaurant to meet a contact who didn't show, and that while he waited, he'd stopped a robbery. "The wife tried to set me up with their daughter, but Gilda only had eyes for a young man who worked as a mechanic."

The car throttled back as he slowed down to turn into the restaurant's parking lot. There was no valet, so Clint chose a spot and shut off the engine. He turned to look at Elisabeta and his breath stopped. Her hair was a mess and her cheeks pink from wind. She looked young and vibrant. Placing his arm on the back of her seat, he waited for her to look at him. "You okay?"

"Yes, it's just that you're the first man I've spent time with since before I met Robert who wasn't a relative or married to a friend. It feels like we're actually on a date."

He clasped her hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. "We don't have to do this, if it makes you uncomfortable. Would you like to go home?"

"No. I've been spending all my time alone, with Anya or my female friends. It's time for me to begin dating once more."

"Good." Clint got out and circled the rear of the car to take Elisabeta's hand and tuck it around his right arm. From behind his back, he brought out a small bouquet of tulips, peonies and lilacs, one of each.

She accepted them with a smile. "Only three?"

"In Hungary, flowers are given in odd numbers. I'm going with three for the first date, five for the second, and so forth."

"We've already discussed this, Ryland. There will be _no_ 'and so forth'."

He chuckled. "That's what you say _now_. I intend to continue to try to change your mind."

~~O~~

Inside the restaurant, Elisabeta basked in the warmth of the owner's personal attention. They fussed over her and treated Ryland like a long lost son finally come home. The other patrons didn't feel slighted as each one received similar attention. Some restaurants claimed that, when you dined with them, you were family. But when you have dinner with family, they don't present you with a bill at the end of your visit, and neither did Elena and Bruno. That wasn't the only surprising thing that happened. Ryland had carried on the entire conversation with their hosts in Italian. He just continued to amaze her.

When dinner was over, she and Ryland took a stroll on the boardwalk that overlooked the river. After a while, they stopped to watch the breeze rippling the surface of the water. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she knew he wasn't Ryland York, but then he might decide not to attend the party with her, and she really wanted him there. He was charming, personable, and would make quite an impression on her friends, and that's what she wanted, wasn't it? To have the people she and Robert associated with believe she'd moved on from his death.

Ryland took her hand and just held it. A small skiff motored past reminding her that it was getting late. She turned to say as much to her companion and found him watching her, a small smile playing on his lips. "You're worried about lying to your friends."

Was he reading her mind? "I've been friends with most of these people for many years."

"So they know you pretty well, and they knew Robert." She nodded and looked away, but he forced her to look at him again by turning her toward him with a gentle touch on her chin. "Then it's probably safe to assume that they'll at least have some idea that our relationship isn't what it seems, right?" Again, she nodded. "So, if you're lying to them about us, and they know you're lying, then where's the harm in letting it all play out?"

"What you say makes a strange sort of sense."

Leaning close, Ryland cast a quick glance around to make certain they were alone before arching one eyebrow and shrugging carelessly. "Some of what I've told you about me is the truth, and some isn't. I leave it up to you to decide which is which. The point I'm trying to make is…" he leaned forward to drop a kiss on her forehead, "…no one tells the truth all the time, even if the person they're lying to is themselves. All your true friends will care about is that you're making the effort to heal from the blow of your husband's sudden death, and you're using me to do it." He tilted her head back so she could see his eyes. "And I for one, don't mind being used."

His tone, along with the twinkle of humor in his smoky blue eyes, made Elisabeta laugh. Then, over his shoulder, she saw something that annoyed her. At her gasp, Ryland started to turn, to see what she was looking at. She stopped him with a hand on his cheek, and a hastily whispered, "Kiss me."

~~O~~

Clint didn't hesitate or ask why Elisabeta had made her request. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her firmly against him so that they were touching from chest to knees, while the fingers of his other hand foraged in her hair. At the impact, her jaw dropped open on a gasp and Clint claimed her mouth as if he had every right to kiss her where and when he wanted, and to let her know without a doubt that he wanted to now.

Elisabeta's hands pressed against his chest, exerting pressure as if to push him away, but he was patient, and soon she relaxed. Her hands curled, the nails digging in slightly through the material of his shirt then sliding up and around his neck.

When he invaded her mouth with his tongue, she made a sound in the back of her throat, filled with need and want and urgency. It so inflamed Clint that the hand on her waist skimmed over her bottom and kept going until he could lift her knee, the point of her heel digging into the side of his thigh, driving him mad.

Through the blood pounding in his ears, Clint heard an intrusive throat clearing. Reluctantly, he loosened his hold and permitted a small space to appear between their lips. Elisabeta stepped back until he was forced to release her, and Clint almost grinned to see the flush on her cheeks.

"Elisabeta?"

Grudgingly, Elisabeta faced the middle-aged couple who'd interrupted them. She looked at him and away, forcing a smile of welcome. "Oh, hello." She glanced from Ryland to her friends and back. "Uh, Armin and Sophia Pataki, this is my friend, Ryland York. Ryland, my good friends Armin and Sophia Pataki."

The couple snapped their mouths closed and smiled awkwardly when Clint shook their hands. "_Örülök, hogy megismertelek_." Then, just to tweak the Patakis, he gazed down at Elisabeta affectionately. "Betta, _bogárkám_, it's getting late and we have that appointment in the morning. We should go."

Just for a moment, she looked at Clint as if he were crazy. Then, she returned his smile. "Of course, _drágám_." To her friends, Elisabeta said, "Will you be there Friday?"

Sophia nodded, her eyes glancing from one face to another. "Of course. Will you be attending as well, Mr. York?"

Clint wrapped an arm around Elisabeta's waist and gave her a smoldering look that was filled with promise. "Wouldn't miss it."

Once the Patakis had moved on, Elisabeta gave Clint a shove. "Sophia is the biggest gossip in Budapest. By this time tomorrow, she'll have told everyone that we're lovers."

Raising his hands in surrender, Clint couldn't help laughing. "You asked me to kiss you."

"A _kiss_, Ryland." Obviously trying to hold onto her outrage and failing, Elisabeta slapped his shoulder. "I didn't ask you to make love to me!"

"I take my work _very_ seriously." Holding her gaze with his, Clint decided to tell the truth for once. He snagged her hand and brushed his lips over the knuckles, lowering his voice into a deeper register. "You are a beautiful woman, Elisabeta. And I took the opportunity to kiss you the way you deserved. If that's a crime, then I'm guilty. But don't think your indignation will get you out of our agreement. We're going to that party together Friday night, come hell or high water."

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Avengers**

**Budapest**

**Chapter 3**

Making love with Robert had been satisfying for Elisabeta, though it hadn't always been so. They'd had to work at it, especially in the beginning. Once they found their way, sex between them was sweet and tender. It had been…nice, and somewhat satisfying. And until tonight, she'd never wondered what it would be like to make love with a man other than her husband. But Ryland had changed that with one kiss. She realized just how lonely she'd been since the night Robert had died, and though she would always love him, she wanted to experience the wild and untamed hunger she'd only heard and read about.

When Ryland kissed Elisabeta on the boardwalk, she sensed that he was filled with an enormous wellspring of passion that was barely restrained. And if that control were to slip even a little, that he, and she, would be lost is a whirlpool of sensation. For that reason, she couldn't allow him to kiss her like that again.

She let him drive her home, but only because he insisted. He didn't ask to come inside, but he did wait until the door had closed and locked before flagging down a cab. She was glad he hadn't kissed her again or she wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. As it was, she would most likely lie awake until her body stopped humming from the intense stimulation.

As Elisabeta quietly made her way down the hall, she could hear the television on in Anya's room. If she'd been waiting up, Elisabeta would've had to deal with her probing questions now instead of in the morning when her head would be clear.

She removed her heels and set them in the empty space on the floor of the closet, took off her earrings, necklace and watch, setting them on top of the jewelry case then got undressed and into her blue satin pajamas. After her teeth were brushed and make-up removed, she climbed into bed, covered herself with the sheet and switched out the light.

Robert's side of the bed had remained untouched except for when the linens were changed. In the months since he'd passed, Elisabeta hadn't once stuck so much as a toe over the imaginary line between the sides. She would always love him, but that didn't mean she had to stay celibate for the rest of her life.

Very deliberately, she rolled onto her left side so that she was more toward the center of the king sized bed. Pulling Robert's pillow into her arms, she buried her nose in it and inhaled. It no longer retained his scent. With her right hand, she patted that side of the bed, but encountered no obstacles, not even a wrinkle. Only the pattern stitched into the duvet. While his spirit remained, his body was long gone. What did it matter if she slept on her side, his side or even in the middle if she chose?

Unwittingly, Elisabeta compared Ryland to Robert, noting that they looked nothing alike. And perhaps that was a good thing. She didn't want Ryland getting the idea that she was using him as a replacement for her dead husband. That would be wrong. Her love for Robert had been a warm blanket on a chilly afternoon. Ryland was more like a fire smoldering in the hearth. Stir the embers and the flames would burst into life again. She would have to be careful around him.

Soon, she became drowsy. She closed her eyes, but it was a long time before sleep claimed her.

In the morning, Elisabeta didn't hear Anya come into the room with her breakfast and leave again.

~~O~~

Clint had the cab driver let him out a mile from the safe house so he could walk the rest of the way. He spent most of that time berating himself for giving in to the impulse to take Elisabeta's request for a simple kiss and crank it up a few notches.

When he discovered that she would be a guest at the very event Clint needed to attend, he'd done everything in his power to convince Elisabeta that he would be the perfect escort, and it had worked better than he hoped. Friday night, he would meet with Smith, Tucker and Szabo, and within a few days, all three would be in jail. Twenty-four hours after that, he would be back at his apartment in New York, leaving Budapest behind. Game over. On to the next mission.

So why did he feel like a jerk, a guy out to get what he could from a woman and just walk away afterward?

His shoulder devil snickered. '_Cause that's exactly what you're doing, a******! You're using Elisabeta to get what you want: Smith and his cronies._

To which his shoulder angel replied, _But jerks are selfish, manipulative SOBs who see women as little more than sexual conquests, objects that exist for the sole purpose of their own personal pleasure. And admit it. You don't see Elisabeta as a conquest. You really like her as a person. Sure, she started as a means to an end, but then you had to go and kiss her. Stupid move, a******!_

Clint resolutely quashed both internal voices as he let himself into the safe house and slammed the door. He shed his jacket as he crossed the living room, throwing it on the sofa. Natasha was sitting at the computer. Over her shoulder, she called out, "Where are you going? We've got work to do."

"To take a shower," he said curtly as he went into the bedroom, adding under his breath, "A cold one." He came out a moment later, pajamas dangling from one hand, to be confronted by his partner leaning against the wall and trying unsuccessfully to keep a smirk from getting out of control. Using a non-lethal version of his death glare, he edged past her into the bathroom and slammed the door in her face.

**A Few Days Later**

**The Home of Elisabeta Kakos**

Elisabeta was just putting in her earrings when the front doorbell rang, and Anya went to answer it. With the door open, she could hear Ryland introducing himself. And though he couldn't know that she'd be able to hear him, he still treated Anya with respect and kindness.

Their combined footsteps echoed on the wooden floor of the hallway, stopping at her door. "Elisabeta? Mr. York is here."

"Send him in, please." Flicking her eyes to catch their reflection in the mirror, Elisabeta saw Anya holding three bright red peonies in her left hand. "You're very thoughtful, Ryland."

"Every woman should be given flowers for no other reason than because she's a woman." He nodded to Anya and firmly closed the door behind her before crossing the room and holding out a second handful of flowers. "You look stunning."

She took the blossoms, a combination of peonies, tulips and lilacs, inhaling their fragrance. Placing them in an antique vase, she caught his eyes in the mirror again. Something about his tone bothered her. "But?"

It was apparent from his expression that he didn't want to say anything more, but she was stubborn and waited him out.

"It's your hair."

Automatically, Elisabeta touched the back of her head to verify that the elegant chignon was still in place. "What's wrong with my hair?"

"It's elegant, but more for the opera or being presented to the queen. You should wear it down around your shoulders, framing your face, the way you wore it the day we met." Ryland didn't wait for her agreement. He simply began taking the pins from her hair, ignoring her attempts to stop him. When he was done, he used his fingertips to tousle the hair, working it loose and checking for hidden pins he might have missed. "You are a beautiful woman, Betta. It's time you let the world see it."

He took the comb from ther top of her vanity and used it to style her hair until he was satisfied.

Turning her head side to side, Elisabeta had to admit that she looked younger than she had with her hair pulled back off her face. This style made her appear carefree and relaxed. And when she moved, the diamonds in her double loop dangle earrings glittered through the strands of hair like fairies hiding in a field.

While Ryland had been working with her hair, Elisabeta had taken the opportunity to appreciate how he looked in a tuxedo. Even through the layers of material she could see the play of his muscles as he moved. When they'd kissed at the river, she'd gotten close enough to know that he was well-built and strong. She had thought him handsome in the denim and leather he'd worn that night. Now, he was magnificent. Surely she would be the envy of every woman at the celebration tonight, even the married ones. Elisabeta found she liked the idea very much.

~~O~~

With a smile, Elisabeta swung her legs from under the vanity and Clint obligingly helped her stand. Then, he released her and stepped back to take in the entire picture. His eyes shamelessly made a slow and leisurely trip down to her feet and back up to her face.

The shallow scooped neckline and scallop-edged sleeves glimmering with crystals emphasized her slender neck and collarbones with a stunning circle of light. The black material hugged her womanly silhouette, fluting from just above her knees down to the floor. Standing with her weight on her right foot let the toes of her left peek from under the hem letting him see that her nails were polished in a neutral color while the thin straps crisscrossed the top of her foot. Seeing just that, Clint made the assumption that another thin strap encircled her ankle. As long as they didn't have to do a Cinderella act at the end of the night, he didn't see a problem.

Elisabeta picked up a bracelet, handing it to him and extending her right hand. He wrapped the diamond and white gold around her wrist then reached for the light wrap on the corner of the vanity, draping it around her shoulders. Extending his elbow, Clint said, "Ready?"

"I am." With a smile, Elisabeta lightly gripped the bottom of his bicep, and together, they walked the length of the hall, out the front door of her apartment and down the lobby steps to the long black limousine idling at the curb.

**The Home of Benedek ****and Marja Szabo**

Standing on the second floor overlooking the ballroom, Clint sipped a glass of champagne while looking for Smith, Tucker and Szabo, and doing his best to be friendly to Elisabeta's friends and acquaintances. She had wanted a charismatic and eloquent companion, and that's what she'd have if it killed him. _Or maybe I'll just __wish__ I was dead, _he thought, trying to ignore that the owners were flaunting their wealth as if that would make them more likeable.

Elisabeta had gone to find the ladies room, leaving him on his own just long enough that several women of varying ages had chatted him up. And though he was flattered, he very politely declined their offers. He could've been a prick about it, but that wouldn't make him any points with their host and his wife.

Clint was about to find a new perch when, there, just coming in through the front entrance, he spotted Smith handing his coat to one of the attendants. If _he_ was here, Tucker couldn't be far behind. Heading for the stairs, Clint handed his glass to a server as he passed, stopping when a voice called out to him.

"Ryland!"

Putting on a delighted smile that was unaffected, Clint turned in Elisabeta's direction, taking her outstretched hand and let her draw him into their circle. "There you are. I was beginning to think you'd ditched me for someone more interesting."

"Don't be silly, Ryland. My dear, you remember Armin and Sophia."

"From the other night." Clint shook their hands and he could see that they were thinking about the other night.

Then, Elisabeta gestured to another couple near the same age. "Franz and Nikola Leitner, visiting from Austria. My friend, Ryland York from America."

To their surprise, and that of Elisabeta, Clint addressed the Leitners in their own language. "_Es Freut mich, sie kennen su lernen_, Franz and Nikola."

Elisabeta regained her composure and introduced the third couple. "Emil and Dorina Stanislav. They're from Romania."

The look in Elisabeta's eyes challenged him. He winked at her, and as he had with the others, Clint shook hands with the husband and kissed the back of the wife's hand. "_Imi pare bine_, Emil and Dorina."

Armin was the first to speak. "Elisabeta, darling, your friend is amazing."

The way he emphasized the word friend told Clint that they thought the relationship had gone beyond mere friendship.

Dorina hid her surprise a little better than her husband. "You speak Romanian as well as German, and Hungarian, Ryland."

Giving the older woman a sheepish grin and a shrug, Clint said, "It's amazing what you can learn from the Internet these days. That, unfortunately, is very nearly the limit of my Romanian." That bit of information seemed to fascinate the women and annoy the men so Clint went with it. "_Bună seara, doriți să dansați cu mine?_ And one other."

Emil spoke for them this time, seeming to be as intrigued by Clint as the women. "And what is that, pray tell?"

"_Vehicolul meu pe pernă de aer e plin cu țipari_."

Only the Romanian couple and Elisabeta laughed, and she looked up at him with immense humor. "Perhaps you should tell the others what it means, _drágám_."

Giving the impression that he wanted to do nothing of the sort, Clint reluctantly agreed. "It means 'My hovercraft is full of eels'."

The group burst out laughing, drawing the attention of their hosts, Benedek and Marja Szabo just coming up the stairs. As they joined them, Clint and Smith finally came face to face. Their eyes locked and each knew the other. Not by name or country of origin, but their true nature. Smith nodded once and saluted Clint with his glass of champagne.

~~O~~

Wearing the uniform of pants, white tuxedo shirt, vest and bow tie, and with her bright red hair stuffed under a short brown wig, Natasha circulated among the guests passing out drinks and hors d'oeuvres, her eyes constantly scanning the crowd for Clint, Smith, Tucker and their hosts. She was here as back-up, not to interfere in Clint's mission.

A burst of laughter gave her Clint's location on the upper floor. Looking up, she spotted him standing with a group of people, a very attractive blonde clutching his right arm as if to stop him from running away.

Making her way carefully up the second set of stairs, she went into one of the kitchens to reload her tray as a way to get close to her partner and his date, purely out of curiosity. Clint would probably see it as her being jealous of the time he was spending with another woman when she could care less, as long as the mission was a success, and as long as he didn't become emotionally involved with the asset.

Her tray full again, Natasha casually moved in Clint's direction. He turned to say something to the blonde that made her laugh then, he draped his arm around her shoulders pulling her close to his side and kissing her temple.

A moment later, they saw Smith at the same time. There was an exchange that most people wouldn't have noticed, but Natasha wasn't most people. _She_ noticed.

Going behind a pillar, she set the tray of food on a table, and pulled out her phone, using her thumb to tap out a quick message. Clint checked his phone and tapped out a response.

_SB. WRU?_ Stand by. Where are you?

She responded with, OY6. SB. _On your six. Standing by._

~~O~~

Clint excused himself to respond to Natasha's texts. Then, instead of answering the last message, he dropped the phone into his pocket. Natasha picked up the tray and made her way in Clint's direction. When she reached her partner's side, she offered the tray of food.

Not giving away that he recognized her, Clint turned to the blonde. "_Édesem_?"

"Just a small one, Ryland."

"And no cantaloupe because you're allergic." Clint chose a small canapé with a thin sliver of salmon over Gouda cheese and held it to her lips. She tried to take it from him, but he moved it out of her reach with a mischievous smile. "Open."

Obediently, she parted her lips and he let her take a bite then finished it off himself. He swallowed then claimed a kiss while their group sipped their drinks awkwardly at their public display of affection.

Their host, Benedek Szabo, handed his empty glass to another server in that dismissive way that grated on Clint's nerves. He would enjoy taking him down, that's for sure.

"How long will you be staying in Budapest, Mr. York?"

Shrugging, Clint shoved a hand into his pants pocket, waving vaguely with the other. "Another week or two. Before I go, there are a few places I'd like to visit this time around."

"And what might that be?" Benedek's wife, Marja, asked. To Clint, her interest was more than a little keen for it to be a casual question she didn't really want the answer to.

"I'd like to take in a performance at the Budapest Opera House."

Elisabeta touched him on the arm, her confusion natural considering he'd only listened to classic American rock in her presence. "You never mentioned you liked opera, Ryland."

He surreptitiously watched Natasha make her way around the upper mezzanine, again shrugging. "Men and women screaming at the top of their lungs in Italian? Who wouldn't enjoy it? Betta, remind me to check their calendar tomorrow after breakfast."

While he was speaking to Elisabeta, from the corner of his eye, Clint saw Smith remove himself from the group, button the front of his tux jacket and disappear around the curved hallway. Tucker had remained behind though he hadn't joined them nor had he been introduced. All the man did was stare and occasionally scan the crowd. He acted more like a body guard than Smith's second.

To facilitate contact with Szabo and Smith, Clint excused himself. "I'm going to step down the hall for a moment. Excuse me."

Clint was directed to the bathroom where he relieved his bladder though it hadn't been necessary, washed his hands, did a quick hair check in the mirror, all while humming along with the music wafting throughout the building. He pretended to be having a good time when what he really wanted to do was take Elisabeta home, get into their pajamas, put some mindless movie in the Blu-ray and cuddle on the sofa with her until they both fell asleep.

Her apartment was bigger than his in New York, but it was nothing compared to this place. The ballroom alone was big enough to hold the big top of any of the three circuses he'd worked in. This bathroom was easily twice the size of his quarters on the helicarrier.

After straightening his tie, Clint tugged on his cuffs, buttoned his jacket, opened the door and stepped into the hall. This part of the second floor was dimly lit, however, that didn't stop him from sensing the presence of another. Letting himself appear totally oblivious, he started walking, jerking to a stop when the muzzle of a gun was jammed into his ribs, and a voice said, "Keep walking, Mr. York."

"What the hell's going on? Elisabeta will be worried…" his ribs were poked harder so he shut up.

"She'll get over it. There's someone who would like to meet you. Now move. We're just two friends taking a walk together."

The man directed him with not so gentle prods until they came to a hallway that had been designated off limits to the guests. A guard had been posted as a reminder. Clint opened the door as directed and the two men entered a wood paneled room filled with books, probably all first editions to go by the smell. Clint loved that old book smell.

His footsteps were muffled by the thick carpeting, and when his companion finally stopped jabbing him, he stopped in the middle of the room and turned, not surprised to see Tucker holding a silenced handgun.

"Thank you for joining us, Mr. York."

The vaguely familiar voice came out of the shadows, and a moment later, Clint and Tucker were joined by Smith and one other, but it was _not_ who he expected. He'd assumed that Smith's collaborator in the illegal weapons trade was Benedek Szabo, but he'd been wrong.

A light flicked on, illuminating Marja Szabo sitting in a leather armchair.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Didn't do this last chapter:

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything to do with the Avengers, Marvel or any of their characters except for the DVD. I'm just playing with them for a while. If I had a position of authority within the franchise, Hawkeye and Black Widow would already have their own movies as would Ruffalo as Bruce Banner. The OCs do belong to me though.

Many thanks to ladygris and Lady Pandora for the tag-team Beta.

**Spoiler:** For _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_

Namaste,

Sunny

**Avengers**

**Budapest**

**Chapter 4**

The light above Marja Szabo glittered off the gold and gemstones that dripped from her neck, wrists and fingers like a sparkling waterfall. If Clint hocked just what she was wearing, he could've paid off his New York apartment, car, motorcycle, bought a top-of-the-line stereo system, and still had enough left over to take Natasha out to a fancy French restaurant _in Paris_ to celebrate a successful mission. The matching leather chairs facing the fireplace, the mahogany table between them and the bottle of scotch had to cost more than Clint's stereo system.

Marja gestured and Tucker came forward to check for weapons. He knew better than to come to a meet armed, but then Clint was no amateur, as proven when Tucker held up the Kershaw in triumph, tossing it to Smith. According to plan, he let Tucker take the Kershaw while the Gerber stayed hidden. _One for them to find, one for him to keep._ Not that he needed the knife. Like Natasha, he could turn almost anything into a weapon, but it made him feel better to have something familiar on hand.

Tucker finished his search then stepped back to cover the main door. Through the double doors that led to the balcony, Clint could see at least two more men standing guard. Even in tuxes, their postures screamed "muscle." Turning his back, Clint dismissed them as unimportant, at least for now.

Marja gestured for him to take the chair to her right. After a big show of readjusting his clothing and smoothing his hair, Clint dropped into the comfortable leather seat, crossing his legs at the knee, and waiting for his hostess to get the conversation rolling.

"Would you care for a scotch, Mr. York?"

Clint gave her a long look without blinking. When Natasha did it, people became twitchy. Not Marja though. "I'm more of a beer man, but I'll try anything once."

With a nod, Marja gave Smith the order. The taller man brought two tulip-shaped glasses from the bar in the far corner and set them on the table. Clint poured a generous amount into both. He replaced the stopper, set the bottle aside and handed one of the glasses to Marja. At no time did the woman take her eyes from Clint, giving him the feeling that this was some sort of test, and if he failed, he wouldn't be leaving, at least not alive. If she wanted a show, so be it.

With small circular motions, Clint swirled the scotch in the glass and watched it coat the sides before bringing it to his nose. He inhaled, exhaled and repeated the process. Taking a small sip, he let the liquid coat his tongue then swallowed. "Sweet, mellow, fruity. I'd say it's Macallan, at least thirty years old."

Marja sipped her drink and set it aside. "Impressive. When Elisabeta introduced you, I thought you were just a pretty face, like an orchid. Someone to convince her friends that she'd stopped mourning for Robert. But you're a rose. Pretty, sweet smelling, and covered with thorns."

Clint took one more sip of the scotch and set it aside. Clearing for combat, as it were. Making it appear that he was only scratching his ear, Clint turned on the audio transmitter hidden in his ear canal. "Not here for sweet talk, Mrs. Szabo. Let's get this over with before my date starts thinking I ditched her."

Though she didn't say anything, Clint got the feeling that he'd impressed her again. "Of course. We can provide a video demonstration of the anti-tank mines, as well as a sample of the smaller products. John?"

Smith brought a laptop over, cued up a video and handed it to Clint. The archer tapped the screen to start the playback. It showed several men in BDUs placing a disk half the size of a trashcan lid into the ground leaving the top surface exposed for the demonstration. The men retreated, and a remote controlled SUV rolled across the field, exploding when it made contact with the mine. When the smoke cleared, there was so little of the vehicle left intact that Clint could barely tell the make and model.

Trying to appear unimpressed, Clint handed the laptop to Smith and waited. Next, Smith went to a bookshelf, removing and replacing several books in a specific order. When the last was pushed back into place, a panel opened and Smith vanished inside, coming out a moment later carrying an assault rifle, sniper rifle, and handgun. All were military issue, but not all were of US manufacturing.

Smith set the handgun and sniper rifle on the desk, and as Clint got to his feet, the mercenary, hoping to catch him off guard, threw the assault rifle. Almost casually, the archer snatched the weapon out of the air, not even sparing the other man a glance. Going to the balcony doors, he eased one open just a few inches. This particular weapon was an outdated version of the M-4 Carbine. _Shortened barrel and collapsible stock, it was ideal for close quarter marksmanship where light weight and quick action are required. It could be fitted with a lightweight, compact, breech loading, pump action, single shot grenade launcher that consisted of a hand guard and sight assembly with an adjustable metallic folding, short-range blade sight assembly, and an aluminum receiver assembly housing the barrel latch, barrel stop and firing mechanism_.

Clint held out his left hand, and received ammunition. There were so many people at the party and the music was so loud, he wasn't worried that the guests would hear the shot. He loaded the rifle, set it to single shot, placed the stock against his left shoulder and sighted on a target some three hundred yards away. Inhale, exhale, and squeeze. The target exploded, and behind him, Clint could feel their surprise, but didn't address it. Holding the rifle by the strap, he turned and handed it to Smith in imitation of Benedek Szabo earlier. "Not bad. My clients want the anti-tank, anti-personnel mines…" he picked up the handgun, examined it and set it back on the desk, "…all the rifles, machine guns, grenade launchers, handguns, and so forth, as well as enough ammo to win a war."

Pushing down on the arms of the chair, Marja got to her feet. Clint guessed that she was in her early sixties at least, taking into account all of the reconstructive work she'd had done. And though the dress was lovely, with its layers of chiffon and satin in ice blue, the color and style didn't suit Marja at all. She needed something more classic, like the dress Hedy Lamarr wore in _The Heavenly Body_, but without the ridiculous hat. Clasping her hands together, the only outward sign that she was pleased, Marja responded, "If you will contact your clients, we can get started on the negotiations."

"I'm authorize to make decisions, so let's talk turkey."

She, and the others, seemed confused by his use of American slang, but he didn't bother to translate. Eventually, Marja nodded. "Very well. The price is…"

The amount she named was an exorbitant figure more than double the actual worth of the stolen goods. Clint burst out laughing, continuing until he collapsed into the nearest chair, enraging Marja to go by the crinkling around her eyes. She closed her eyes, presumably to bring her emotions under control, and Clint took the opportunity to drop a tiny transmitter into the planter to his right. The device had a short shelf life, broadcasting randomly for exactly one week then burning itself out. It was just a precaution, in case their offer was declined.

"I am not aware that I said anything remotely amusing, Mr. York."

Getting himself under control with difficulty, Clint snatched up his glass of scotch and guzzled what was left. "That's way more than my clients are prepared to pay for stolen goods. You'll have to come down…a _lot_."

"The price stands firm." Gesturing at the room, and by extension, the house and the grounds beyond, Marja said, "Benedek is a pillar of the community. A position that comes at a price. He has no head for business, though he likes to think otherwise, and I let him. He is, after all, my husband. With this position, the community has certain…expectations. In order to maintain our lifestyle, I have had to make certain adjustments to my principles and values while allowing Benedek to keep his. One amoral member of the family is more than sufficient."

"Your community involvement doesn't concern me or my clients. They're willing to pay no more than…" The price Clint named was much less than Marja's original suggestion, though well above that of the actual value of the products. She'd still make a profit, just not as big as she wanted. Turning his wrist over, Clint pretended to make calculations in his head. "The offer is good for, well, let's be generous and give you until midnight tomorrow. That's twenty-six hours and seventeen minutes. After that, each day that we don't hear from you, the amount will drop by a half million."

Getting to his feet, Clint made to leave. As soon as he touched the doorknob, Tucker clamped a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Clint looked down at the hand and over at Marja. At her nod, the hand was removed before Clint had to show _his_ hand, so to speak. "I look forward to hearing from you soon, Mrs. Szabo." Halfway out, he turned back, looking directly at Marja. "And if you or any of your cohorts so much as look at Elisabeta Kakos wrong, you won't live to see the next sunrise. _Spokojnoj noči!_"

Clint flipped a salute and closed the door. When he reached the area where he'd left Elisabeta and her friends, they were gone. At the railing, he searched the crowd below, but didn't see her. A tiny sliver of worry wormed its way into his subconscious.

Then, he saw Sophia Pataki and Dorina Stanislav coming up the stairs. He was there to greet them when they reached the top. "Ladies. Have you seen Elisabeta? She owes me a dance and I'm ready to collect."

Dorina smiled at him, but it was shaded with a touch of awkwardness. "You were gone so long, she decided to take a walk out by the infinity pool. You'll find her there."

Smiling, Clint nodded at the older woman. "_Mulţumesc_. Which way is that?"

~~O~~

Tired of standing, Elisabeta looked around for Ryland, but there were so many people on the mezzanine now she couldn't tell if he was nearby or not. After a bit of searching and having an attendant check the bathrooms, she decided that her date was a big boy and could find his way around without help. She descended to the main floor, weaving her way between the groups of people at the bar.

She accepted a glass of champagne and turned to see Dorina and Sophia coming toward her. They spoke briefly, then Elisabeta gathered the front of her dress in her right hand, lifting it high enough to keep from tripping as she went out onto the patio.

Acquaintances stopped her to express their sympathy for Robert's death. She thanked them and moved on, not wanting to be drawn into long conversations that would only make her sad. And she didn't want to be sad tonight. She wanted to laugh, drink champagne, and just pretend that her world was perfect.

The wide walkway curved off to the left and around. Here and there, couples and small groups talked quietly while a quartet played softly next to the pool. Going to the rail, Elisabeta closed her eyes and let the cool breeze ruffle her hair.

Elisabeta walked past the fountain, stopping to listen to the water splash and bubble. It provided serene background music to the scene. Some of the water splashed on her and she smiled. It reminded her of a summer vacation when their son, Ben was seven. They'd gone to the United States to visit friends and made a trip to a theme park that had lots of water rides.

Hearing a high-pitched whistle, the kind meant to get someone's attention, Elisabeta's eyes scanned right to left until she saw Ryland waving to her from the mezzanine she'd just left. She waved back, motioning for him to join her, and she could see him smile. He stripped off his jacket and tossed it over the rail to land on one of the lounge chairs.

Then he did something she would never have expected.

Ryland climbed over the rail and let himself down until he could reach a handhold that didn't look like his hand would fit, but somehow it did. Fingers pressed to her mouth, Elisabeta watched him make his way down to the patio that surrounded the pool. He jumped the last six feet, landing sure-footed. He retrieved his jacket, settling it on his shoulders. As he walked toward her, he tugged on his cuffs, grinning when he finally reached her. "I've been looking for you."

"And _I've_ been looking for _you_. How did you…" She waved, indicating his climb.

"What?" The expression on his face told her that Ryland had just now realized what he'd done. He grinned and it almost seemed like he was self-conscious about this surprising ability. "I, uh, you know, I don't feel like making something up so here's the straight skinny. At the age of twelve, I ran away from the orphanage and joined a circus."

For a long moment, Elisabeta searched his eyes for any indication that he was about to spring the punchline of a joke, but none came. He was either very good at lying, or he really was telling the truth. Either way, she decided not to pursue it. "Why were you gone so long?"

His hands came up to lightly grip her arms. "Ran into an acquaintance and we made plans to meet tomorrow for lunch to catch up."

"What's his name?"

"_Her_ name is Phoebe. She's the sister of an old friend, an art student at the university and working the party tonight to make some extra cash." The quartet began playing a slow, romantic song. Ryland's left hand slid down to hold her right and bring it up between them. "_Szeretne táncolni velem?_"

The last time Elisabeta danced was with Robert at the party Ben had arranged for their wedding anniversary. That had been just a few months before her husband's passing. Ben and Laura had also announced their engagement. Shaking her head, Elisabeta tugged her hand free. "Thank you, but no."

"Why not?" Elisabeta had to give him credit for not showing his surprise at her refusal. Then, a slow grin appeared. "You don't trust me to behave, is that it?" Apparently, her silence was enough of an answer. "It's _just_ a dance."

"Like the kiss was just a kiss?" He chuckled, and she felt it all along her arm that was held between them.

Turning his hand until they were palm to palm, the other hand settling on her waist, Ryland left space between them as he urged her to sway side to side then in a circle. "Sometimes a dance _is_ just a dance, Betta."

She finally gave in and relaxed, closing the small gap between them. The hand on his shoulder slid inward until her fingers were splayed over the back of his neck. The short hairs at his nape tickled her fingers while his hand on her waist inched toward her spine, and stopped. Ryland had promised that this would be a dance and nothing more, and he kept his word.

The song ended, and Ryland released her from his embrace yet kept hold of her right hand as they walked back toward the main building. When they got close, Elisabeta was suddenly reluctant to be in among all those people again. "I don't want to go in just yet. Let's sit out here for a while."

~~O~~

Clint more than understood Elisabeta's back and forth emotions on this first venture back into her social circle. On the one hand, she wanted to move on from her husband's death, and on the other, she felt she was being disloyal to his memory. Not to mention the lies they'd both told.

For Clint, lies were a way of life. It was how he kept himself safe in the world he shared with the rest of the intelligence community. As Natasha was fond of saying, hiding your true self under layers of untrue selves was a good way not to die. And he agreed, up to a point. Eventually, you got tired of the lies, and the need to tell someone, anyone, the truth without holding back would start to overwhelm you until you either let it out or went crazy. Clint had been feeling like that for a while now, but aside from Natasha, Coulson, Hill and Fury, he didn't have anyone he trusted with the full truth of Clinton Francis Barton AKA The Amazing Hawkeye. Over the past couple of days, he'd given Elisabeta bits and pieces of his true self, but not enough to make the restlessness go away, to calm his mind to the point that he could sleep without having dreams that woke him up in the night. Reminders of the past.

When Clint asked Elisabeta to dance, there'd been no ulterior motives behind the offer. They were at a fancy society shindig, and that meant dancing, mingling with her friends, and drinking expensive champagne. Except for the mingling-and the meeting with Maja Szabo-he'd enjoyed himself so far.

By now, Natasha would be monitoring the bug he'd planted and all he had to do was make it to the end of the night so they could plan their next step. Szabo and Smith had to call their contact back to let them know what Clint had offered for the goods. Then, once everyone was in agreement and the exchange had been made, SHIELD would waltz in and take everyone into custody. Easy-peasy. Yeah, _right_. No such thing.

Letting Elisabeta lead the way, they moved over to the poolside lounge chairs where he helped her by lifting the train of her dress as she swung her legs up. Then, he took the seat next to her after scooting the chairs close together so he could at least hold her hand. That was more for him than for her though. At the moment, he wanted comfort more than he wanted to comfort her. Selfish? Yes. But he refused to let go.

After a while, Elisabeta gave him a shake and he was surprised to find that he'd fallen asleep. "Come. Let's go back inside."

Standing, he took both her hands to help her stand. "Feeling a bit peckish are you?" He grinned at her confusion and explained, "Are you _hungry?_"

She tilted her head to the side and looked up at him as if filing the word away for later use. "A bit. It's a little chilly out here as well."

"You should've said something." Clint immediately took off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. "We're doing this for _you_."

Smiling, Elisabeta thought it over. "Yes, we are."

She slipped her arms into the sleeves of his jacket, grabbed his hand and pulled him back into the noise and confusion. It had to be getting late, but the party showed no signs of slowing down. If Elisabeta wanted to stay to the bitter end, he'd be right there with her.

Several hours later, Elisabeta and Clint sought out their hosts. It was well past midnight, and though he could go for days without sleep, Clint was tired. All he could think about, aside from the mission, was getting into his pajamas and falling into bed. Natasha could have the first watch tonight, whether she wanted it or not.

Elisabeta enthused over the food, drinks, music, and the décor, just as any good guest would do, and Clint echoed her sentiments. Benedek kissed Elisabeta on both cheeks and shook Clint's hand. Then, when it came to Marja, Elisabeta also received the expected good night. Clint, however, received only a handshake from the lady of the manor, and it was quickly apparent why. Marja used it as an opportunity to press a note into his hand. Casually, he pocketed the note, thanked the Szabos once more for their hospitality, and escorted Elisabeta to the waiting limo.

A few minutes later, the driver was handing Elisabeta out of the passenger compartment, and Clint climbed out after her. To the driver, she said, "Give us a few minutes then take Mr. York wherever he wants to go."

The driver tipped his hat. "Yes, ma'am."

Holding her hand, Clint went with Elisabeta to the door where the doorman was already waiting to let them in. They didn't talk on the walk to her front door and that suited Clint fine. His mind was on the note Marja had given him. He'd wanted to read it immediately, but couldn't with Elisabeta in the car. He wouldn't be able to read on the ride to the safe house either. Resigned to waiting, he drew Elisabeta to a stop in front of her door, turning her to face him. "Was tonight everything you'd hoped it would be?"

Pink suffused her cheeks along with a smile. "Could I get back to you on that?"

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he looked at the sidewalk then met her eyes. "Of course. As long as you _do_ get back to me. You have my number, and I'm going to be in town for a while. Give me a call."

She seemed to think that over with a smile. "Or _you_ could call _me_ when you're free."

He shrugged his shoulders up around his ears and back down. "Aside from lunch tomorrow, I'm free, unless Ursola calls with an assignment."

Clint had done a background check on Elisabeta, and the only Ursola she had regular contact with was Ursola Poppa, the owner of an escort agency. Strictly escorts. And if the client wanted more, that was between the client and the employee, and not to be discussed with management. As long as Elisabeta didn't talk details with her friend the next time they spoke, he wouldn't be found out.

Elisabeta reached out and ran a hand down his lapel, lowering her eyes before letting them meet his, the question she wasn't able to voice in her eyes. The air thickened with sexual tension, but Clint wouldn't take advantage of it. No matter if _she_ thought she was ready, she wasn't. And he would never use her that way.

Instead, he placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned in. Elisabeta's lips parted in anticipation then, she lowered her lashes to cover her disappointment when he softly brushed a kiss over her cheek close to the corner of her mouth. His voice low, he whispered, "_Jó éjszakát_."

Staying close, Clint reached past Elisabeta, opened the door, waited until she'd gone inside then pulled it shut again. Once in the limo, he asked to be taken to the same address where the driver had picked him up, an address nowhere near the safe house. On the street, he took off his jacket, draped it over his arm and shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking. In the left pocket, his fingers closed around the note Marja Szabo had passed him. And as much as he wanted to read what it said, he'd wait until Natasha was with him so they'd have each other to commiserate with should this part of the plan go south in a big way.

Because he'd taken his time, Clint arrived at the safe house well after Natasha, and though she peppered him with questions, he ignored her until he'd changed into his pajamas and hung up the tux so he could return it. Picking up the scrap of paper, he stood next to his partner who was seated at the computer, ready to send an update to Coulson.

He carefully unfolded it, taking a breath before reading what Marja had written.

"What's it _say?_"

Clint's eyes met Natasha's as he passed it to her.

**TBC**

**A/N: **_The Heavenly Body_ is a 1944 American romantic comedy film directed by Alexander Hall and starring William Powell and Hedy Lamarr. Based on a story by Jacques Théry, with a screenplay by Michael Arlen and Walter Reisch.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** **D****isclaimer:** I don't own anything to do with the Avengers, Marvel or any of their characters except for the DVD. I'm just playing with them for a while. If I had a position of authority within the franchise, Hawkeye and Black Widow would already have their own movies as would Ruffalo as Bruce Banner. The OCs do belong to me though.

Many thanks to ladygris and Lady Pandora for the tag-team Beta.

**Spoiler:** For _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_

Namaste,

Sunny

**Avengers**

**Budapest**

**Chapter 5**

Unable to get a reading from her partner's expression, Natasha swiveled the chair so the light above the computer fell on the page in her hand. The only thing written on it was a phone number. Presumably, they were to call and schedule a time and place for the exchange. It would be in public with safeguards to make certain everyone played only the cards dealt without having something up their sleeve.

The right side of Natasha's mouth turned up in that half smirk she knew Clint loved because it meant she had a plan that would bury the bad guys. Turning back to the computer, she sent a message to Fury and Hill. "Fish in a barrel, partner. Where do you want the meet?"

Clint didn't immediately respond, and she glanced over and up to see him pulling at his lip in thought. Then, he noticed her stare. "What?"

"What is _wrong_ with you? Your mind isn't on the job."

Going to the sofa, Clint sat down, exhaling loudly. He planted his elbows on his thighs and rubbed the back of his neck. "Tired, I guess."

There was something in his tone, and she pounced on it. "O-oh. It's that woman, isn't it? Elisabeth."

"Elisabeta," he corrected. "And it's _not_ what you're thinking."

"So you and she didn't…" she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Clint stood and paced to the other side of the room, turned and leaned against the wall. "_No_, we didn't."

"Turned you down flat, huh?"

He laughed without humor. "_I_ turned _her_ down." Pushing off the wall, Clint headed toward the bedroom. "I'm goin' to bed. We can go over the particulars in the morning."

"Sure. No prob-" Natasha deadpanned, the door slamming on the last word. "You're on first watch tonight. _Opezdol._"

A few minutes later, the computer beeped with an incoming message. _Páskom-liget, Pest County line, noon, two days. Protocol Zulu-whiskey-seven_.

After sending an acknowledgment, Natasha went to the kitchen to program the coffee maker. She was too tired to stay awake until Clint decided to get his ass out of bed, so she set all the alarms, including the motion detector on her phone. Sliding a Makarov under the sofa cushion she used as a pillow, she lay down and pulled a gaudy handmade blanket up to her neck. In the morning, Clint would call the number with the day and time of the exchange. This hadn't been the longest mission they'd ever been on together, but with Clint's attention divided, it had been a strain on both of them. If he was still in the clouds tomorrow, she'd give him a good ass-kicking.

**Two Days Later**

**Páskom-liget**

Clint stood in the middle of the field waiting for their contact to arrive, feet planted shoulder width apart and arms crossed. When he'd contacted Marja Szabo to coordinate time and place, she'd stipulated that he come with only one other person. She'd also stated that they come unarmed, to which Clint had laughed and hung up on her.

In baggy pants and a hoodie, Clint looked like a common street punk, and he knew that, without SHIELD, that's where he'd likely be right now. A teenage boy with his abilities was a bigger draw than a man in his mid-thirties calling himself the Amazing Hawkeye. He was approaching middle age, and it sounded like arrogance, even if he could do it better than anyone.

Natasha slipped on a pair of HUD glasses to scan the area with the amped up SHIELD infrared, locating at least seven warm bodies besides their own hidden in trees and bushes. He walked to the open area to stand in front of the vehicle he and Natasha had arrived in, and a few minutes later, heard the sound of a car engine just before Natasha's voice crackled in his ear.

"_Company's coming, Hawkeye. Think six pizzas will be enough?_"

Ignoring her, he cleared his throat and dropped his voice into a deep register, adding a dramatic undertone, "Today, the part of the antagonists will be played by John Smith AKA Paul Gruber, Marja Szabo, Tucker, and an as yet undisclosed person." A snort and Natasha swearing made him laugh. "Love you too, Nat."

The SUV eased to a stop and two men got out. He continued his narration. "The driver is Smith. The passenger must be the mastermind. Knew Smith wasn't smart enough to pull this off alone."

"_I see 'em. Get him to smile for the camera and I'll do facial rec._"

Smith and the other man met in front of the SUV dressed much as Clint was, as they all were, casually, as if going to the park for a day of fun in the sun. "It's show time."

"_Got him…Coming through now._" There was a long pause before she spoke again. "_Colonel __Gary F. Wisner__. Apparently the Army is his wife because he never married. Had a long and varied military history until he was appointed to SHIELD base Venture. A couple of years later, there was an incident under his command._"

"I remember. He was exonerated, and it's generally accepted that it was because of his father's friendship with the president."

A sound of derision came through loud and clear. "_His commanding officer believed he was covering for someone, but he either wouldn't say or the investigation didn't turn up any good leads. He was given command of the Closet to get him out of the spotlight, i.e. they paid him to disappear. I'd say his presence confirms guilt._"

Wisner, six feet of muscle with black hair graying at the temples, no facial hair and a permanent glare, took a step forward. "Good afternoon, Mr. York."

"_The best defense is a good offense, so start offending, Hawkeye. You're good at that._"

Ignoring Natasha's insult, he hooked his thumbs in his belt and said, "Let's start with who _are_ you?" Wisner's eyes twitched just a fraction of an inch, but to Clint, it was a scream.

"My name is unimportant. We have what you want, so let's do business." Clint stared at Wisner then turned and headed for the car. He stopped when Smith called out to him.

"Wait! Where are you going?"

Crossing his arms and giving off annoyed vibes, Clint faced them again. "I thought you were serious, but I was wrong. My clients have a coup to get under way. If you're not ready to play the game, I'm outta here." Clint took the sunglasses hanging from his pocket and stuck them on his face. "See ya 'round. _Szép napot_."

Smith and Wisner conferred briefly with Smith shrugging his shoulders and gesturing with both arms. Finally, Wisner spoke to Clint. "You can call me Mr. Jones."

"_Now_ we can do business, Mr. Jones. As I told your _boy_ there," he pointed his chin at Smith, "my clients want mines, weapons, grenades and the launchers. Your entire inventory. They're prepared to increase our previous offer by two million with a generous finder's fee for Smith and Tucker."

Even in civilian clothing, Wisner's posture and attitude screamed military. Still, he wasn't able to hide his reaction to someone speaking to him through a hidden earpiece. He nodded as if the person could see him. "Before we get to that, tell your plus one to come out in the open where we can see him."

Showing no surprise at the request that sounded more like an order, over his shoulder, Clint called out, "Come on out Pheebs. Smith and his pal want to meet you, _lyubimaya__._"

A moment later, the crunch of his partner's footsteps in the grass then on the gravel came toward him and stopped at his side, while Clint watched their reactions. It had taken all of Clint's powers of persuasion to get her to wear what he called her Black Widow suit. It was made of a skintight black material that looked like leather, but allowed more freedom of movement and didn't stink or shrink when it got wet, as well as wicking the moisture away from her body. And the red hair didn't hurt either. It hung below her shoulders in curly waves. She usually kept it above her shoulders, but had grown it out for an upcoming op. Shoved in her back pocket was her SHIELD smart phone. Weapons of all kinds were secreted on her person, but no one would ever know unless they searched her, and there was no way she'd let either man get close enough.

"Phoebe Massak, meet Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith." Natasha nodded, stuck one hip out to the side and smiled. To Wisner, Clint said, "Your move, Jones."

~~O~~

As Wisner got out of the SUV, he didn't take his eyes off of the man standing in the middle of the road. The vehicle he'd arrived in was a non-descript four-door sedan. Totally forgettable. After the pleasantries had been exchanged, Wisner was contacted by his second hiding at a safe distance with the others they'd brought with them.

If they did this right, everyone would walk away with more than enough money to keep them in luxury for the rest of their lives. Wisner already had big plans. When he left Hungary, his next stop was would be Morocco where he'd already put a deposit on a home outside the capital city, Rabat. He'd rather have sought refuge in an English-speaking country, but he needed to be in a place where extradition with the US wasn't possible. One of the recognized languages of Morocco was French, which he spoke semi-fluently along with several other languages. Still, he preferred English.

As he and Smith waited for York's plus one to show himself, Wisner mentally wrote his formal resignation from the United States Army. He'd been a loyal and devoted patriot of the country of his birth for his entire life. However, when his superiors refused to stand behind the judgment call he made in Madrid, they'd killed that allegiance as if they'd plunged a knife into his heart. And in a way, they had.

From behind a large tree came a petite woman no more than five-two, slender, with beautiful red hair his favorite actress, Shirley MacLaine, would envy. She walked with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, just like York. Chancing a glance to his left, he saw Smith staring at her. He gave Smith a shove with his elbow to get his attention.

Wisner gave all his attention to York. "You and me, in the middle. No one else. I give you the account and once the funds are transferred, I'll provide the address where the products are stored."

York didn't even consult with his companion. He just started walking, as did Wisner, coming to a stop less than a yard apart. Holding up his smart phone with the account number displayed, Wisner waited until York entered it into his phone and together they waited for a response. Likely, he was using a phone application that wasn't yet available to the general public that would facilitate the exchange.

Looking over the shorter man's shoulder, the now former military commander kept one eye on the woman and one on York though both were being watched by men stationed around the area just waiting for the signal to attack. Wisner had known from the beginning that anyone he met face to face would have to be eliminated once the sale had taken place.

Mentally rolling his eyes, Wisner wondered, not for the first time, who had been in charge of giving names to the secret bases and just what that person had been thinking when he or she had named the Closet. At least he was done with that place. The money he'd make today would keep him and his associates going for years.

York's phone beeped, and it was followed by another from Wisner's phone. Holding his phone up so Wisner could see it, his grin turned into a smirk. "Payment's made, Jones. Now pony up the address. Once it's been verified by my people, you and your lap-dog are free to go."

Angered at the other man's audacity, Wisner's right hand reached for a weapon that wasn't there. "Apparently, you're confused about who's in charge of this little get-together."

The smirk hadn't left. If anything, it had gotten wider, York stopping just short of laughing out loud. "No confusion here, pal. _I'm_ runnin' the show."

"How do you figure?" This question came from Smith, who, until now, hadn't spoken much.

York snorted, and Wisner wasn't the only one to think it sounded like contempt. Another glance at Smith confirmed it.

Shifting his feet, York's expression changed to boredom, as if he were tired of the whole situation. "We have the money. You have the goods. We can take our money elsewhere, but once word gets out that you're unreliable sellers, you can forget about finding a new buyer. Guns aren't like car parts. You won't make more by selling your stuff a little at a time. Or maybe you will. But do you really wanna take the chance?" York paused to let his words sink in. "Every day you hold onto the product, your chances of getting caught increase exponentially. So what's it gonna be? Sell, or get caught with your hand in the cookie jar?"

They were interrupted by Wisner's phone beeping. He scrolled through the text, finally relaxing. "The transfer is verified, and the funds have already been moved out of that account into another to make sure you didn't do something stupid, like have the money recalled."

York spread his arms out to the sides. "As long as we get our weapons."

"And you will." Wisner tapped the screen, pointed his phone at York's and tapped again. York's phone beeped in response. York read the display and smiled. Catching Smith's eye, Wisner nodded and the two men walked back toward their vehicle, stopping when several men popped up out of the bushes with high-powered rifles pointed at them. "We've fulfilled our part of the bargain, York. What's this about?"

"You're not going anywhere until my people do an inventory. For all we know, you could be trying to pass off a warehouse full of junk as the real deal."

~~O~~

Without moving his lips, Clint said to the squad, "If you see a situation developing, go for it. Don't wait for me or Romanoff."

The SHIELD agents stationed around the park didn't bother to acknowledge his order. They'd worked with Clint and Natasha long enough to know the way this would go. To Smith and Wisner, Clint said, "This might take a while, depending on where the stuff is."

Into his headset, Clint heard the squad leader say, "_More company. All directions. Lots of 'em._"

Again addressing Wisner, he said, "You should've told me you invited guests. We're gonna need more beer."

Wisner and his cohort seemed genuinely confused. The conferred for a moment then Smith said, "They're not ours. We came alone."

The rumble of engines became louder as they got closer. Giving up all pretense, Nat tapped her headset. "All units! Take cover!"

Together, she and Clint ran toward Wisner and Smith, Clint yelling, "Get under cover. Now! Go!"

Making sure they were between the two men, Clint glanced over his shoulder as two SUVs skidded to a stop amid clouds of dust on the dirt road. He slipped on a pair of HUD glasses and activated the infrared just as they disappeared from sight behind thick clusters of bushes and flowering plants. Unfortunately, they were nowhere near where Clint had hidden his bow and arrow. Somehow, he had to work his way around to it.

Crouched between Clint and Nat, Smith kept a wary eye on both agents, though at this time, neither had shown their entire hand. Wisner crouched a few feet away, an M-9 clutched in his right hand. So much for the "unarmed" rule. But Clint couldn't fault him for carrying. He and Nat were too, _and_ they'd brought back-up.

The group watched men spill out of the vehicles and scatter before any of the SHIELD agents could get a bead on them. But who sent them and why? The only possible answer was Szabo, and that made the why obvious. With everyone else out of the picture, she would get all the money and build up her reputation as a ruthless businesswoman at the same time. "All units, report."

One by one, the others reported in, giving Clint an overview of where all the players were positioned. Still, he needed to see for himself. Behind him was a tall tree with lots of leafy branches to hide him. All he needed was to get out of the clothing he wore over what Natasha called his Hawkeye suit. Like hers, it was skin tight and very flexible. The layer against his skin wicked moisture away from his body to keep him cool during periods of intense physical activity. And he had plenty of that coming up. "Nat, you stay with them. I'm gonna do a quick recon and pick up my stash."

Clint backed up and made a crouching run to the tree while Wisner protested, "Where the hell is he going?"

"To make certain you live to spend all that cash. Now shut." To emphasize her point, Natasha powered up the Widow's Bites as a warning. Smith started to back up and she clamped a hand on his arm, forcing him down again. "I do _not_ like repeating myself."

That was the last Clint heard as he reached the tree he'd chosen as his lookout. After stripping off the jacket and pants, he leaped up to grab the lowest branch and pulled himself into the dense foliage, climbing up until he could see the entire area. One of the newcomers was under the tree he'd hidden the bow and quiver in. All he had to do was make his way to the other side, get rid of the guy blocking his way, and retrieve his equipment. _Piece of cake._

As quietly as he could, Clint dropped down to the ground, checked that all his knives were still in place and headed out. He reached the other side of the road and made a quick recon, rolling his eyes when the leader of the new group of bad guys yelled out to them.

"_None of you will be leaving here alive. If you come out now, I'll make it quick. One shot and it's over. Your choice. You have five minutes._"

~~O~~

Natasha scanned the area, locating several of newcomers and all of their people. With the SHIELD squad and the people Wisner and Smith brought, the number of Szabo's men far exceeded theirs sending them up against what most would consider overwhelming odds.

Clint would probably take out a couple before retrieving his bow, the squad would take out a few more, and once they could move from this spot, she'd get her share.

There was movement next to her as Smith and Wisner changed places. The military man leaned close to her ear. "This _your_ fault. Yours and York's," he sneered.

Not rising to the bait, Natasha restrained herself from punching him in the throat. "How d'you figure?"

"They had to have followed you and your arrogant partner."

She inhaled, held it, counted to ten, and exhaled as she turned a glare on him. "How _stupid_ can you _be?_ Szabo sent them. With all of us out of the way, she won't have to share the profits." Natasha growled a warning. "You think this is our first rodeo?" She moved her left hand and a knife appeared in it.

Wisner snorted humorlessly. "So much for being unarmed."

Not even sparing him a glance, Natasha pulled up a pants leg and took out a small caliber handgun. "We're mercenaries, Jones. Not _stupid_. Oh, and you can drop the act. We know who you are."

"Excuse me?"

"Your name isn't Jones any more than mine is." Some of her attention was on the bits and pieces of chatter from their team with the rest conversing with her companions. From the look on Smith's face, he was surprised as well. "Colonel Gary Wisner. Born April 3, 1969. Joined the Army after graduating high school. Two years ago, you were given command of the Closet, a secret base located in…"

"Base?" Wisner sneered contemptuously. "It was a _boneyard_. A place where the US stored all its castoffs. Weapons, planes, tanks _and_ people. And if you know all that about me, then why are you protecting us?"

"Szabo's men won't make a distinction. To them, we're _all_ targets. Now shut the hell up so I can think."

"_Two minutes_."

~~O~~

Creeping through the trees and bushes, Clint worked his way over to where he could see his destination. All he had to do was remove the single barrier between him and his bow. And not get hit by all the gunfire around him. They had to end this and get gone before the locals showed up.

A ringing in his ears kept him in his current hiding place. Lately, his hearing had been a problem, and because of it, and the gunfire, he couldn't tell where the voices were coming from. That slowly changed until all he could hear was the ringing. Sometimes it pulsed in time with his heartbeat, but usually it was the ringing.

Sticking a finger in his ear, he wiggled it until it stopped then did the other side, working his jaw to make them pop. There was a moment of pain then his hearing returned. Now he could hear the radio chatter from the squad. No one had been captured or killed as yet, but he couldn't let them know where he was because just up ahead a heavily armed man dressed all in black and wearing a flack vest-he rolled his eyes at the cliché-crouched behind the very tree where his bow and quiver were hidden.

Within seconds, he engaged the man in hand-to-hand combat. The man was soon out for the count once Clint got him into a sleeper hold. After removing his weapons and radio, Clint dragged him out of the way. There was nothing to tie him with except his own belt, so he did what he could, shoved a gag in his mouth and got on with business.

The leader of the group that had attacked them announced, "_Two minutes_."

Clint scrambled into the tree and slipped the quiver over his head. Straddling a branch fifteen feet up, he nocked a specialized arrow then sighted on the back of a man with a shiny bald head hiding about fifty yards in front of him. They needed these guys to testify against Szabo, Smith and Wisner so killing them was out, unless it was unavoidable.

_Pffffft!_

The man screamed when the arrow equipped with a special tip hit him in the shoulder and discharged like a stun gun knocking him out. Slinging the bow over his head with the quiver, the archer lightly dropped to the ground, removed the other man's weapons, stashing them out of sight, tied him up, and headed for the next guy. Crouched behind a bush, Clint left the bow around his chest, getting ready to pounce.

What Clint didn't see or hear was another of their enemies creeping up behind him. The man raised his automatic weapon to bear. The red dot of the laser sight appeared in the middle of Clint's back. He adjusted his stance slightly, waiting for just the right moment to squeeze the trigger.

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** **D****isclaimer:** I don't own anything to do with the Avengers, Marvel or any of their characters except for the DVD. I'm just playing with them for a while. If I had a position of authority within the franchise, Hawkeye and Black Widow would already have their own movies as would Ruffalo as Bruce Banner. The OCs do belong to me though.

Many thanks to ladygris and Lady Pandora for the tag-team Beta.

**Spoiler:** For _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_

Namaste,

Sunny

**Avengers**

**Budapest**

**Chapter 6**

Creeping through the park, ignoring the sounds of battle and superfluous comm chatter, Agent Quinn Cosgrove came upon a disturbing sight. One of the bad guys had his weapon trained on Barton's back. Strange that the archer hadn't heard the man coming.

Letting the semi-automatic hang from the safety strap, Cosgrove took out his Taser, removing the cartridge and turning it into a stun gun as he moved silently up behind the man. Just as the bad guy was about to squeeze the trigger, Cosgrove tapped him on the shoulder, one eyebrow raised cheekily to match the grin. "Hi."

The other man's eyes widened a second before Cosgrove jabbed the stun gun into his chest. The crackle of electricity drew Barton's attention. Holding the bow in his right hand, the arrow pointed at the ground, he walked over, stared at the man for a long moment then at Cosgrove. "Thanks."

"Welcome." The squad leader checked the time. "Can we cut this short? My daughter has a ballet recital tonight."

Barton put on HUD glasses and pressed the side to activate. His eyes darted over the information. Then, he nodded. "We're outnumbered twenty to one and they have superior firepower. I'd say twenty minutes, thirty tops."

"Wicked. I…" Before he could finish the thought, Barton brought the bow up, turned and fired, hitting a bad guy with another of his Taser arrows. The man screamed and fell to the ground, conscious, but unable to move.

As though it was nothing, Barton faced him again, cocking his head to listen to the chatter. Hearing the shriek of Widow's Bites and fighting as Natasha kicked bad guy ass. "Romanoff's got it all under control. I'm going after the ring leader."

"Who sent them?"

Barton slung the bow across his chest and adjusted his ear piece. "Tucker's not smart enough to plan something like this. He's more of a go-fer. We're all loose ends as far as Marja Szabo is concerned, and you know what happens to loose ends."

The crunch of footsteps came near, and the two men separated to continue taking the bad guys down. As Barton disappeared into the foliage, Cosgrove used the HUD to stalk his next prey. All around him, gunfire ripped through the foliage. When several bullets nearly knocked him on his ass, he gave thanks to the inventor of Kevlar, and the helmet he wore. Through the comm, he heard Romanoff swearing in Russian, presumably at Barton because he responded to her invective with a sarcastic, "Love you too, Nat."

Immediately after, he heard the sound of fighting, and on the HUD he saw two figures take down more than a dozen others. Barton and Romanoff worked out together and were partners because they made a great team and knew each other's moves so well. Cosgrove had a good team too. Another aspect of his life to be thankful for.

But the greatest gift of all was his family. His wife was ex-FBI so she understood the need to be gone for long periods.

The snap of a twig brought his attention back to the job. They were outnumbered and outgunned, but that never stopped them before. With a grin, he stalked his next target.

**Thirty Minutes Later**

Clint, Natasha, Cosgrove and Gamma Squad had rounded up all of the bad guys. A double squad had been dispatched to the Szabo home to take the couple into custody.

Natasha sent a signal to their SHIELD back-up while Clint made introductions. Wisner was shocked, but not nearly as much as Smith. Standing with Wisner and Smith between them, Clint and Natasha watched as the prisoners were loaded into several quinjets. The first two took off, taking the injured and leaving the agents to escort the last of the prisoners on board the one remaining.

The handgun Wisner carried had been returned to a place of concealment. Smith had a gun as well, but he'd lost it in a fight with one of Szabo's men. He'd also received a broken arm for his trouble. Natasha had set it, then used two branches and torn pieces of Smith's shirt to make a splint and sling.

Together, Clint and Natasha moved in front of the men, Clint's hand extended palm up. "You're under arrest, Colonel."

"You're _arresting_ me, Agent Barton? We just fought side by side against a common enemy."

"The enemy of my enemy isn't always a friend. You've been a bad boy, Gary. Theft of government property and treason, to start with. Suffice it to say that for the rest of your life, you'll be imprisoned at government's pleasure in a federal facility chosen by Nicholas Fury, director of SHIELD."

From the idling quinjet, Cosgrove called out, "Agent Romanoff? A word, please."

With a final glare at Smith and Wisner, Natasha went to speak with the squad leader while Clint dealt with the two men. For someone who made his living as a mercenary, Smith was a wimp about pain. Every little movement brought with it a pinched expression that made the other man look like he'd been sucking on a lemon laced with vinegar and salt.

Reluctantly, Wisner took out his weapon, checked that the safety was on and held it out butt first for Clint to take. "The American government screwed me over big time. All I wanted was enough money to live a decent life after my retirement. Those weapons were classified obsolete and left to rust in warehouses. Didn't think anyone would miss them."

"Yeah, well someone did. You should've retired when your twenty was up. Play golf all day."

"And Bingo every night? No thanks. I want _more_ from my golden years."

Clint ejected the clip of Wisner's weapon and handed both to Cosgrove. "Don't we all? Chances are I'm not gonna live long enough to retire, so consider yourself lucky." He nodded toward the quinjet. "Let's go. Ride's waiting."

Head held high, even in defeat, Wisner followed Smith toward where Natasha was standing with Cosgrove. They made a strange looking pair. Cosgrove was over six feet and had the naturally tanned skin tone of someone of European descent and a bald head. Natasha was fair-skinned and petite, her head tilted back to look the taller man in the eye.

From the corner of his eye, Clint saw Wisner's right hand move just before he wrapped the left arm around Smith's neck, a knife held to his throat. He dragged Smith toward the SUV. "Stay back! We're getting out of here, and if you try to follow us, I will slit his throat from ear to ear."

Clint moved to the side, keeping pace with Wisner and his hostage without closing the distance. "Can't do it, Colonel. You're already spending the rest of your life in a federal prison. You wanna go for the death penalty too? Or maybe we should just turn you over to the Hungarian government."

Clint moved to the right forcing Wisner to turn to keep him in sight and allowing Natasha to inch closer.

"I was a loyal soldier for thirty years, doing everything asked of me without question. Then, one little mistake and I'm exiled to some backwater base where a big night is playing Gin with my assistant."

"Don't blame others for your bad decisions, Wisner. You didn't get to be a Colonel without understanding that life isn't always fair. We all have to take responsibility for our own actions."

Wisner's face pinched in a combination of confusion and annoyance. Good. Clint took that confusion and kicked it up a level. "Do you know the quickest way to end a hostage situation?" The archer didn't wait for an answer. "Remove the hostage from the equation."

Until now, Smith had been fairly quiet. At Clint's words, he began to struggle. "Release me, or I will see to it that you are dead within days of your incarceration, Wisner."

Wisner pulled Smith tighter against him, hitting his broken arm with the hilt of the knife. Smith cried out in agony and stopped struggling. They reached the SUV, and Wisner used the hand with the knife to try to open the door.

His attempt was unsuccessful when Natasha tossed one of her Taser discs at Smith. It stuck to his shirt and discharged, rendering the man unconscious. Unable to hold onto Smith's dead weight and open the door at the same time, Wisner let him go leaving himself exposed. Before he could react, Natasha was running forward to knock the knife away. There was a short scuffle, Natasha easily outmaneuvering the seasoned soldier. Soon, Wisner was unconscious as well.

Standing over the men, Natasha looked at them without emotion. "That looked like it hurt."

"It _does_." He shot her a look. "You've never been hit with one?"

She shrugged as if it were no more important that the color of the trees around them. "No."

"Take it from me. They _sting_. Not as bad as when you used that weird Russian poison on me."

"You were only paralyzed for a couple of _days_, Hawkeye. You need to let it go."

Cosgrove nodded at his men, and soon Wisner and Smith were onboard. The hatch closed and the quinjet lifted into the air. Arms crossed, Natasha turned to glare at Clint. Sometimes, her glares felt like a physical thing winding its way through the air to smack him on the side of the head. "Something bothering you?"

"That's what _I_ was gonna ask _you_. Never seen _anyone_ get the drop on you."

Shrugging, Clint crossed him arms and headed for their vehicle. "It was an aberration. A one-off. Never happen again."

Over his shoulder, Clint saw Natasha's steps falter as they both headed for the passenger seat. She changed directions to get behind the wheel, started the engine and made a U-turn. They left the park, and a few minutes later, the police sirens were heard coming toward their former location. Clint stared out the window, not really seeing the scenery scroll past as his partner navigated the route back to the safe house. On the way, Natasha called in a food order and stopped to pick it up.

While Natasha showered, Clint booted up the computer and got started on his report. She came out in a fluffy robe and rubbing her hair with a towel. He heard her moving around in the kitchen. The microwave dinged and a moment later, a plate was dropped on the desk next to the keyboard along with a bottle of beer. Distractedly, he said, "Thanks," picked up a potato and cheese pierogi, took a huge bite, wiped his fingers on the napkin she handed him and continued working.

Clint finished his report, deciding to let it simmer overnight and put the finishing touches on it in the morning. He vacated the desk chair and Natasha immediately slid into the seat. His dishes were put into the sink and rinsed then, he went to get a shower. When he came out, Natasha was still at the computer. He had the first watch tonight so he stretched out on the sofa to watch a soccer game.

**The Next Morning**

A noise brought Clint instantly awake. What was even more disturbing was that he didn't remember falling asleep. His lower half felt warm, and looking down, he found that Natasha had covered him with that freaky-looking blanket she found stuffed in the back of the bedroom closet. Why she insisted on keeping it, he didn't know, and to tell the truth, he was afraid to ask. Sitting up, he found the remote on the floor. It must've fallen and that's what woke him.

Standing, he yawned, and stretched, scratching his stomach as he padded into the kitchen to start the coffee. Then, he booted up the computer and went to relieve his bladder while both were working.

Clint grabbed two of the Szilvas Gomboc, a dumpling with a plum in the middle and sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, eating while he read over his report before sending it to Coulson. He'd been careful in the telling of how he got into the party, referring to Elisabeta as "the asset."

He tweaked a few places, reread it one more time and sent it off. The read receipts arrived within moments of each other.

Restless now that the mission was officially over, Clint retrieved his duffle bag from the closet, changed into workout gear, dug his iPod out of the side pocket and went for a run. When he returned almost two hours later, Natasha was sipping coffee and reading his report.

"What the hell are you doing?"

She took a slow sip of coffee, set the cup down and swiveled the chair around to face him. "Making sure we got our stories straight regarding the mission, that's all. I noticed you didn't refer to Elisabeta by name."

He took a long drink of water then recapped the bottle. "Didn't see any need. She didn't do anything wrong. She was just…"

"Arm candy?" Clint scowled at her dropping his eyes to the floor. "I _know_ you like her, Clint. Give her a call. Take her to dinner, then back to her place for a little horizontal mambo."

"We talked about that, Nat."

Suddenly, Natasha was holding his hand, her serious face on. "I saw the way you looked at her, _lyubimaya_. And the way _she_ looked at _you_ when your back was turned. Plan a nice romantic dinner, just the two of you. Take a walk in the moonlight, kiss her good night, and she will be yours."

Clint yanked his hand away, using it to rub the back of his neck. "She's _not_ a conquest, Nat. And I _do_ like her, which is why…Shit! I'm gonna get a shower and change, then I'll be out to help pack."

She stopped him by clamping a firm grip on his arm. "What you're going to do is get a shower, get dressed and _call_ her. As long as it has nothing to do with the mission, it doesn't matter _what_ you do, just do it together."

"Can't. Coulson's expecting us back by tonight."

Again, she touched him on the arm. "Leave Coulson to me. He…"

"But, Nat…"

Huffing in the way that spelled trouble with a capital T, her grip tightened painfully. "Go have sex with her already. You want to. Just _go_."

There was nothing more that he could say. Natasha was right. He _did_ want to sleep with Elisabeta, but not to fulfill some fantasy about having sex with an older woman-been there, done that-_or_ for stress relief. No, he wanted to be close to her. To feel her naked body pressed up against his as they slept in the same bed. He wanted to make love with her in all the places her husband never had. Now all he had to do was convince her to say yes to all of it.

Though Elisabeta had given the appearance of being smitten with him in front of her friends, he knew she'd seen through his façade of charm to the man underneath. Not the man he pretended to be, but the real Clint Barton. Something only a few people in his lifetime had done, and only because he let them. Natasha was one. Coulson was another other. And yes, he'd even given Hill a small glimpse under the metaphoric curtain too. With them, he could be himself and they understood without explanation. It had taken time and patience on their parts to coax the least bit of vulnerability out of him, yet, Elisabeta had somehow done so within minutes.

Clint rubbed a towel over his head as he returned to the bedroom. On the dresser lay his phone, which he distinctly remembered shoving in the side pocket of his duffle bag. He thumbed the power button and found Elisabeta's contact info cued up. He sat down on the foot of the bed, his thumb hovering over the send key. All it took was a small amount of pressure to start the call.

"Elisabeta? Ryland…Would you like to have dinner with me tonight? I can pick you up at seven-thirty. We could go to that Italian place or…what's that? _You'll_ pick _me_ up? Sure. I'll text you the address…Until tonight then. _Viszlát__._"

**A Few Days Later**

Standing on the terrace that overlooked the garden, Elisabeta closed her eyes and let the night breeze ruffle her hair and skirt. The blossoms bobbed and weaved, dancing to a tune only they could hear. From inside the house, she heard voices. The front door closed and Ryland's heavy footfalls came toward the back of the apartment. She turned as he stepped onto the terrace.

He smiled engagingly. "Hope you don't mind. I sent the cook home and Anya off to visit her mother for the night."

A little annoyed that he would be so bold, Elisabeta took one of the glasses of wine and went over to sit on edge of one of the thickly cushioned lounge chairs. "Anya's mother died several years ago."

Shrugging sheepishly, he set his wine on the small table next to Elisabeta's then flopped down behind her with his head propped on his hand, unrepentant. "Okay. You got me. I sent her to a hotel for the night so we could be alone."

"Ryland…" she said with a warning in her tone, "…whatever it is you have planned…"

Snagging her around the waist, he pulled her close. "What I have planned is us spending the evening truly alone." At her doubting snort, he brushed the hair back from her face. "After all this time, you still don't trust me?"

"I _do_. It's just that…" He shut her up by kissing her on the mouth. No intrusions, just their lips touching, distracting her from what she was saying. "Have it your way then. Did Cook leave us something for dinner?"

He scooted around until she was on his lap with her legs were over the arm of the chair and his hands clasped together over her hip. "She did. I asked her to make something simple. Her idea of simple is _way_ different than mine. I asked for sandwiches and she decided that meant Borlenghe with Lardo and Prosciutto. We argued while she was slicing the prosciutto."

Elisabeta laughed in spite of herself. "Cook took your suggestion as a challenge, of course." Finally relaxing, she lay a hand on his arm, rubbing from the elbow down to the wrist and back, over and over. The hairs on his arms tickled her palms, and she found herself becoming aroused just from the sensation. It was something that hadn't happened since before Robert had died.

Her husband's lack of desire prior to his death should have been an indication that something was wrong because he'd always enjoyed making love. Not to the point that they did it every night. A few times a month was the average. Once she'd stopped having a cycle, she thought the number would increase, but it hadn't. She'd been disappointed, but never said anything.

"By the time the argument was over, the Borlenghe was done. She stuck it in the oven to keep warm so whenever you're ready to eat, let me know."

Leaning forward, Elisabeta plucked an apple from the basket on the table. She took a bite and Ryland surprised her by guiding her hand to his mouth so he could take a crunchy bite as well. He chewed and swallowed then urged her down for another kiss.

"Mmm." The gentleman that he was, Ryland held the apple to let her take another bite before setting it aside. "Where I'm from, we have a saying. 'An apple a day keeps the doctor away'."

Giving in to her wish to be close to him, she snuggled into his embrace. "I have heard this, but do not believe it's true."

Grasping her chin, Ryland tilted her head back so he could drop a small kiss on the corner of her mouth. "Know what else I heard? That only three…" he kissed the other side, "…passionate kisses a day can double your metabolic rate."

Against her will, Elisabeta moaned when Ryland planted a soft kiss on her throat. "Really?"

"Let's find out." He leaned back, the smirk she'd come to know making a slow entrance. Claiming her mouth, Ryland used his talented tongue to ask for admittance, and Elisabeta gave it to him. When he finally leaned back, he said, "That's one," and immediately came in for another that was just as passionate as the first.

Elisabeta's need for oxygen became urgent and she pushed him back far enough to take a quick breath. "That's two."

"Wanna go for three?" Though he asked permission, it was apparent he had no intention of allowing her to deny him. This third kiss lasted longer than either of the first two, though they did eventually come up for air. Framing her face with his hands, he grinned. "Screw apples. This is more fun."

Pressing her palms against his chest, Elisabeta slid them down then back up and around his neck. "I agree. But perhaps we should go eat before all of Cook's good work goes to waste."

One arm went under her knees and the other around her back. Ryland stood and walked toward the house. Inside, he set her on her feet without releasing her. He started to speak, and she touched his cheek to stop him. "Ryland…"

He took hold of both hands. "Elisabeta, I know you've only had one lover in your life. And since you've made the choice to venture into the world of romance again, you're wondering if men will find you desirable."

Trying not to show her surprise that he'd figured her out so easily, she nodded. "Yes, that is true. However, I don't want you to think you're obligated to instruct me in all the ways a woman can please a man."

"That's _not_ what this is about." He stepped back, spreading his arms to the side. "I'm offering myself to you as a partner, _not_ an instructor. I haven't always told you the truth, but the one thing I've never lied about was the attraction I've felt since the day we met. If you don't want to make love with me, it's your call. We'll have dinner, watch a movie or play cards, and when you're ready for sleep, I'll kiss you good night and go. No harm. No foul." Crossing his arms, Ryland planted his feet shoulder width apart. "What do you want, Betta?"

Over his shoulder, Elisabeta could see her reflection in the hall mirror. Her hair and clothes were in disarray and lipstick smudged from the kisses they'd shared. She stepped past him to examine herself more closely.

Almost without effort, this man, a stranger, had stirred emotions within her that hadn't seen the light of day in many years, if at all. But did she want to taste what he was offering, only to have it taken away, leaving her thirsting for it even more once he was gone? The answer was yes. She had to know what it was like to have a man know what she wanted before she even knew she wanted it. And what she wanted now was to lose control, for them to be so caught up in each other that they called out their names when they reached the ultimate pinnacle, not just once, but over and over.

What had seemed like a few seconds to her must've been much longer, because when she turned to give him her answer, he was nowhere in sight. Almost frantic, Elisabeta hurried to the kitchen to find Ryland serving up the meal Cook had made them. He turned with a plate in each hand, and a look of disappointment he tried to hide behind a smile.

Elisabeta had never been daring with a man before meeting Ryland, and she _liked_ the feeling. He set the plates on the table and returned for the bottle of wine they'd been drinking. She rushed forward to take the bottle from him and set it on the table. Taking him by the hand, she drew him with her toward the hall that led to the bedrooms. They'd only gone a few steps when he planted his feet and turned her into his arms. "What are you doing?"

"I want us to be together."

"We _are_ together, Betta."

Puzzled by his response, she looked at him curiously. He seemed to be making a point, but what that was, she didn't know. "I don't understand. You said to make a choice, and I have."

Again, she made to move away, to lead him to her bedroom, but he wouldn't let go nor would he be moved. Instead, he tightened his embrace. Not in a way that frightened her. Just to keep her in place. "Don't _show_ me what you want. _Tell_ me."

"I-I can't. I'm not _like_ you, Ryland. Robert and I didn't…we never discussed being intimate. It was just something we did. People your age are more open about these things, and I am finding it difficult to change with the times."

The feel of his arms changed. It started as a way to keep her with him, but now it was different. Before, his arms had encircled her like a band. Then, it became more of a comfort, as if he were hugging her. In response to the tenderness, Elisabeta pressed her palms against his chest below the collar bones. One of his hands lightly cupped the back of her head, encouraging her to lay her head on his shoulder. Soon, she relaxed into the solace he was providing, and when he gently kissed her temple, somehow, she began to understand. He wasn't offering himself as an instructor, though it seemed to be _exactly_ what he was doing. Teaching her to be more forthcoming. To ask for what she wanted.

Turning her head, Elisabeta placed her mouth close to his ear. "Come to bed with me."

"You say that as if you expect me to say no." His hands gripped her arms just below the shoulders and moved her back so he could see her face. "If you want me to make love with you, say so."

Taking a fortifying breath, she said, "I want you to…make love with me."

"Say it again, but with confidence. Make it a demand." He released her and took a step back. "What do you want?"

Ryland's commanding tone seemed to be more in the way of a demonstration than because he was angry. Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect. Instead of instilling self-assurance, she became flustered. "I-I want…"

"_What_ do you _want,_ Elisabeta_?_ Tell me!"

Elisabeta's mouth dropped open, and suddenly, she felt it. Confidence, along with something else. She could feel the adrenaline surging, her pulse quickening in response, and more. Parts of her that had lain dormant for a long time tingled with anticipation, her fingers curling into fists as the arousal coursed through her veins. She tilted her head back to meet Ryland's eyes, darkened with desire. It was as she hoped. He was just as electrified as she.

Opening her fingers, she grasped the front of his shirt, turned and pushed him up against the wall. He gasped at the unexpected movement, and she pounced on the opening, thrusting her tongue along his and into his mouth, kissing him with a hunger she'd always felt deep inside, but never before experienced. Gliding her hands down his arms, she grasped his wrists, moving them above his head and just holding him there. He was much stronger than she, but he'd turned control over to her. _She_ was in charge! He was here to do as she commanded, not the other way around.

Slowly, Elisabeta pulled her mouth from his in order to take in oxygen. Ryland was watching her with astonishment and amusement. "Make love with me, Ryland. Now!"

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

**Avengers**

**Budapest**

**Chapter 7**

The chiming of the grandfather clock penetrated Clint's fog-filled brain, bringing him renewed awareness of his surroundings. Cool air whispered over sizzling hot skin as he waited for his heart rate to return to normal…again. His chest was sticky with sweat, especially where Elisabeta was cuddled against his right side, bare skin sliding along bare skin. She made a sound of immense satisfaction and pleasure, a long wavering sigh, as though she'd tasted an especially delectable treat.

They were lying on a blanket in front of the cold fireplace in the library, the only light coming from the moon streaming in the patio doors creating long shadows on the floor. The scent of old books mingled with the distinctive aroma associated with passionate love making.

Her fingers flexed, the short, manicured nails digging into his flesh, stirring parts of him that should be well and truly tired by now. The hand inched its way down, and when Elisabeta's intent became clear, he stopped her by weaving their fingers together. "I'm more than happy to fulfill all your requests, Betta. Just give me a few minutes to recharge."

He felt her smile where her cheek lay on his shoulder. "As long as you don't take too long."

Clint laughed out loud and pulled her close so he could press his lips to hers. "Mmm. I had no idea you were so insatiable."

He felt the vibration of her laughter where they touched. "Until tonight, I've never made love anywhere but in a bed. It's quite exhilarating to do it in places one normally wouldn't."

"Like the breakfast table in the kitchen, that fancy chair in the front room, standing up in the hallway, on the washer during the spin cycle, and on the floor of the library?"

"Yes, like that."

He kissed the top of her head, rubbed it with his cheek and sighed. "No offense, but this sexual awakening of yours is wearing me out."

One leg came up and over his, dropping between his thighs and grazing his nether regions, on purpose, it seemed. He groaned, silently so Elisabeta wouldn't think he wanted her to stop. Under normal circumstances, he and the woman would be asleep by this time, whether together in her bed-never at his place-or he went home. And he did promise to satisfy all of her wants and needs.

The sound of her breathing lulled him, and just as he was about to fall asleep, that hand of hers went back to work. "Careful how you handle the merchandise," Clint quipped.

She immediately released him, her hand sliding up to touch his cheek. "Where should we go next?"

Looking down at her beautiful face, he grinned. "I have an idea. We need a blanket and some more of that wine."

"Mmm. We'll stop in the kitchen on the way."

~~O~~

Standing beside Ryland, the blanket wrapped around her like a toga leaving her right arm and shoulder bare, for the first time since their initial meeting, Elisabeta thought he'd gone mad. "_Please_ tell me you're making a joke."

"I promise," he hugged her from behind, "it'll be worth it."

"What if we wake the neighbors and they see us?"

He chuckled. "We'll just have to be quiet."

Taking her hand, Ryland opened the door that led to the garden and tugged her after him. He located an area that was free of the decorative rocks and fairly flat. The trees and bushes would block prying eyes from all but one direction. If someone on the upper floors of her building were to look out, they might be seen, but the hour was late, and most of her neighbors retired early.

Reluctantly, Elisabeta allowed Ryland to take the blanket and spread it on the grass. Kneeling down, he held out his hand and she laid hers in it. He drew her down beside him and into his embrace so they could kiss. Soon, she was on her back with him moving above her. Until now, she'd been the one to make all the decisions about which way each encounter would go, accepting the occasional suggestion from him. Now, all pretense of her calling the shots was gone. Ryland took command with a firm hand and a delicate touch. It wasn't long before she came to the realization that the passion they'd shared so far was just the tip of the iceberg.

And when the end came, he covered her mouth with his to muffle the sounds of ecstasy just as lightning flashed and rain poured down on them. With quick, efficient movements, he flipped the sides over her, then scooped her into his arms and hurried inside, not stopping until he reached the bedroom. Setting her down, he let the wet blanket fall leaving them both standing naked in the middle of the bedroom. They looked at each other and laughed. On the heels of the laughter, Elisabeta shivered, and Ryland whispered, "We should take a hot shower before you catch cold."

"Together?"

He winked at her, grinning impishly. "You need someone to wash your back, _angyalom_. And I think I have one more in me before sleep becomes a necessity."

~~O~~

Sometime later, they were lying together in the middle of her bed. Elisabeta with her head on his shoulder, the pads of his fingers lightly trailing up and down her arm, not talking. After the shower, they'd gotten into bed and fallen asleep. She had awakened when he kissed her on the forehead. Ryland pulled her tightly against him briefly and brushed the still damp strands of hair from her forehead. "I should go."

Tilting her head back to look at him, she frowned. "Must you?"

One side of his mouth turned upward. "Didn't know if you'd want me to stay or not."

This newfound confidence Elisabeta enjoyed had no place in this moment. "Please do."

Ryland's hands stilled their gentle movements. "Before you say that, you should know…"

She raised up on one elbow, forcing him to release her. With all seriousness, she murmured, "Tonight was amazing, almost magical. Please don't say anything to break the spell. Just let me savor it for a while because you'll be gone soon, and I don't want you to have regrets."

Settling into the bed again, she waited to hear what he would say. Time passed so slowly that it could have been seconds, minutes or even an hour before he dropped a warm and tender kiss on her lips. "In general, I have _many_ regrets. About _you?_ Never. I'll stay, but first, we should clean up the mess we made in the kitchen before Cook sees it."

Laughing, she tossed back the covers, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, reaching for her robe. She went to the closet and tossed him a robe. Ryland paused only a moment before slipping it on and tying the front. He needn't have worried. She'd planned on giving the robe to Robert on his birthday.

Ryland insisted on doing the cleaning while she nibbled on some leftovers from the refrigerator and sipped wine. "This is bone china. It's been in Robert's family for generations. Always passed down to the eldest child."

Crawling from under the table, he held up a cup and saucer that had somehow escaped the carnage. "I found some that aren't broken."

She sipped her wine then set the glass aside to take them. "It was to be a gift to Ben and Laura on their wedding day."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I've always thought the design was hideous." She looked at the cup in one hand the saucer in the other then at Ryland. With a mischievous grin, she let go. They fell to the floor with a satisfying crash. Taking a deep breath, she let it out and grinned. One of Ryland's eyebrows arched in question. Instead of answering, Elisabeta went down the hall to the dining room and he followed. They returned to the kitchen carrying the rest of the despised china, where they smashed each and every piece one at a time. "That felt _good!_"

Elisabeta grabbed the lapels of his robe, spun him around, pushed him back onto the table, and climbed up to straddle his hips. As this was where their first time together had been, she thought it fitting that they make love here once more before going to sleep.

Afterward, Ryland swept up the shards of bone china while she held the dustpan, making short work of it. He returned the cleaning supplies to the small closet in a corner of the laundry room. The broken pieces of china and wine bottle he dumped into a trash bag and set it outside the back door. The silverware went into the sink where he rinsed the food off before taking her hand and leading her back to the bedroom, but instead of going right to bed, he had her sit at the vanity while he brushed her hair.

The expression on his face reflected in the mirror was of intense concentration, and Elisabeta could feel that this was how he always was, no matter what the situation. All of his attention focused on the task, though not so much that he became desensitized to his surroundings. She'd noticed that at their first meeting. Every few moments, his eyes would scan the area and return to her, as if she were the center of his universe at that moment, and everything else came second. It had been disconcerting at first, but then, she became used to his scrutiny and it no longer bothered her. Instead, it made her feel safe, cared for.

Setting the brush aside, Ryland took her hand and led her back to the bed. He helped her off with the robe, put her in and drew the covers up to her neck, then went around to the other side, got in beside her, and cuddled her close. Within moments, her eyes became heavy and soon she was asleep.

~~O~~

Once Elisabeta had fallen asleep, Clint set his watch to wake him in a couple of hours and soon, he too was asleep.

Hours later, the alarm went off, and Clint rushed to shut it off. Rubbing the sleep from the eyes, Clint carefully removed Elisabeta's arm from where it lay across his chest and scooted off the side of the bed. She made a noise and rolled over, but didn't wake up.

After dropping a light kiss on her forehead and tucking the covers around her shoulders, he gathered his clothes where they were strewn all over the living room floor, except for his boxers. Those he found on the mantel over the fireplace. Going into the guest room, he used the shower, dressed, and combed his hair, all in under ten minutes.

Clint went to the library and rummaged in the desk for paper and an envelope. Taking a pen from the holder, he wrote a quick note, folded the page, slid it into an envelope and sealed it. On the front, he wrote Elisabeta's name.

The sun had been up for only a short time, and as he approached the front door, he heard low voices in the hall just before a key turned in the lock. Cook and Anya stared at him like deer in headlights. To tweak them, he grinned and winked. "Mornin', ladies. You might want to let Elisabeta sleep in today. We were up kind of late."

Without speaking, Cook sidled past him with a wary eye, letting Anya deal with him. "You're leaving before breakfast, Mr. York?"

"I have an appointment I need to get to." He handed her the envelope. "Would give this to Elisabeta when she wakes up?"

"Of course." Clint stepped past the young woman into the hall. She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Will you be back?"

Staying with Elisabeta wasn't in Clint's plans, nor was returning in the future. If circumstances had been different, if _he_ had been different, he could see making a life for himself with Elisabeta. But she needed to spread her wings, to fly solo. If he stayed, he'd only get in the way of her newfound confidence, and _that_, he would never do. It was time to go before either of them became emotionally invested in this relationship.

He shook his head. Anya's face fell, the look of sadness on her employer's behalf so profound that Clint leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. "Take care of her."

"I will. Good bye, Mr. York."

Out in the street, it was early and few cars were on the road. The trolleys weren't running yet so Clint flagged down a cab for the ride to the safe house. Just as he was sticking the key in the door, Natasha opened it. "Where the _hell_ have you been? I expected you _hours_ ago. There's an emergency. Coulson's sending someone to get us."

He pushed past her to gather up his duffle bags and take one last turn through the apartment to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. "I get shit when I _don't_ take your advice. Then, when I _do_, I _still_ get shit. Make up your ******* _mind_, Nat."

For one of the few times since he'd known her, Natasha was speechless. It wouldn't and didn't last. "You _slept_ with her?!"

She stared at him as he took possession of her bags and went out into the hall, adding them to his own. Someone from SHIELD would be along to collect the computer and other electronic equipment.

Huffing, he led the way out to the car parked at the curb. Their ride would be picking them up at a secluded location on the north side of the city. "That _was_ your advice, as I recall. So…"

"But you were out _all night_, Clint. You _never_ stay the night with…"

Rolling his eyes, Clint tossed their bags in the trunk and got behind the wheel. "Elisabeta is _not_ a conquest. I didn't sleep with her for stress relief or to get information out of her. I did it because I _wanted_ to. Because I enjoyed her company."

Natasha was quiet for a while then, "Are you…"

"No." Clint hoped from the short answer and sharp tone that his partner wouldn't bring it up again. At least not for a while.

To Clint's relief, once the debriefing was over, she never spoke of Budapest again. Not until a few years later while they were doing their best to repel an alien invasion over Manhattan. They had just sent Captain America off to help Thor, Stark and Hulk. It might have been his imagination, but Natasha seemed to be enjoying the fight.

Even knowing it would do no good, she kept firing her Makarovs at the aliens, the tone of her voice almost cheerful though they were hopelessly outnumbered. "This is just like Budapest all over again."

Mentally rolling his eyes, Clint huffed at his partner. "You and I remember Budapest _very_ differently."

To the great relief of everyone involved, the Avengers, as Fury called them, were able to stop Loki and the Chitauri from taking over Earth by sending a nuke back through the vortex. It exploded just as the portal closed preventing any fallout from impacting Manhattan and the civilians living and working there.

Once everything calmed down and the team had their injuries tended to, Stark took them for shawarma. Clint hadn't bothered to tell him that he'd been eating it since he joined the circus. He was starving and Stark was paying. That's all Clint cared about.

Once the excitement died down, and repairs to the city began, Clint thought about Elisabeta for the first time in a couple of years. While he was sidelined with a concussion and his injuries from his fight with Natasha, and the visits with the staff shrink, he used the vast resources of SHIELD to check up on her. What he found made him smile.

Because she was one of the wealthiest women in Budapest and had been good friends with Marja and Benedek Szabo, her picture occasionally made it to the society pages of the newspapers, and online, though thankfully not often. The articles he did find usually came out around the anniversary of the Szabo's flight from justice to a country that had no extradition treaty with Hungary or the US.

The most recent blurb included a photo of Elisabeta with a man slightly older than she. He had white hair and a dignified air. They were just leaving the Budapest Opera House after a performance of _Swan Lake_. She looked happy and in high spirits. Clint could tell she liked the man and enjoyed his company, but she wasn't in love with him.

Clint had told Natasha the truth their last day in Budapest. He hadn't been in love with Elisabeta, but he had and still did care about her enough to want her to be happy. If he'd stayed around, then yes, he could easily have loved her the way she deserved, but he would've also hurt her. And that he wouldn't do for _any_ amount of money.

There was a knock on the door, and Clint hurriedly shut down the computer so his partner wouldn't see what he'd been up to. She'd been given the assignment of overseeing Banner's work for SHIELD, and wasn't dealing well with the stress of being around the Other Guy, even in his non-Hulk form. There wasn't much he could do to help because the Black Widow preferred to work through these things on her own. And until he was released by the doctors, medical _and_ mental, he was stuck at his temporary home in D.C., cooling his heels while being questioned on a daily basis by the WSC. He didn't need her worrying about him more than she already did.

**Budapest, Hungary**

Elisabeta became aware of an antiseptic smell and the sound of beeping long before she opened her eyes. Her head ached and when she lifted her hand, found she had an IV. "Anya?"

A familiar, warm hand touched hers. "I'm here, Elisabeta."

"Where am I?"

Anya's voice was filled with worry and that controlled tone that said she'd been crying. "In the hospital. Cook found you unconscious in the garden. Do you remember anything?"

Scooting around in the bed to get comfortable, Elisabeta glanced around the hospital room. There was only one bed and the curtains were drawn. "Yes. I felt dizzy, and my stomach turned nauseous. I started to go inside to lie down, and now I am here."

"The doctor said you passed out because your blood pressure dropped suddenly. He will be back soon. There are many tests he wants to do before he can make a proper diagnosis." The nurse came in and Anya excused herself to call Cook and let the older woman know that Elisabeta was awake.

**The Next Day**

Sitting up in bed, Elisabeta clasped her hands together in her lap, barely able to fathom what the doctor was telling her.

"…There are treatments for your condition. If they are to be at all effective, we must begin immediately. I'll leave you to think about it. Would you like the nurse to call someone?"

"No, thank you. My son and his wife will be here soon. I'll talk it over with them and let you know what I decide."

"Of course." He gave her hand a comforting squeeze and left her alone.

Elisabeta's options were few. She could take the treatments and _maybe_ live a long life. The treatments may only work for a short time, extending her life by a few years. After which, she'd die within a few months. Or she could _not_ take the treatments and be dead before Christmas. To her, the choice was obvious. Ben and Laura had gotten married a year ago, and Elisabeta wanted to live long enough to have grandchildren. She would take the treatments, and hope for the best.

Now that the decision had been made, she felt better. When Ben and Laura arrived, she would tell them, and in a few days, be back home again.

Miklos had returned from his business trip today, but she would tell him just enough to put his mind at ease. After that, she would send him away so he wouldn't have to watch her deteriorate over time. She knew he would insist on staying with her, but she would rather have him find someone else than give his love to a woman who may not live long enough to be worthy of him.

There was a light knock on the door. It opened and Miklos came into the room carrying a small bouquet of flowers in a vase. He set them on the nightstand and leaned down to kiss her cheek. "You're awake, _kincsem_. When Anya told me you were in hospital, I came right over."

"It was nothing. I hadn't eaten or drunk anything, and with the unseasonably warm weather, I became dehydrated. The doctor is merely being cautious."

He pulled a chair close to the bed and held her hand. It felt good, but not in the way it had with Robert. With her husband, from the first touch, she felt as if something magical was happening, that somehow, in spite of the odds against it, she'd found her soulmate. And when he died, for a long time, she thought that she'd never find another man she would love as much as she loved Robert.

Miklos was intelligent, kind, compassionate, and a gentle lover, and though she always felt satisfied by their encounters, they lacked the power and the passion she'd tasted with the man she knew as Ryland York. She'd known that Ryland would be gone when she awoke that morning, and so was not surprised to find herself alone. His note did nothing to explain why he left, nor did it say that they would ever see each other again.

In between Ryland and Miklos, she'd had a few lovers, but none had made her feel the way she wanted to feel, and that was fine with her.

But now it was time to send Miklos on his way. They had no formal commitment, and there had been no declarations of love, so it should be easy. "Miklos, something has been on my mind…"

~~O~~

For Elisabeta, life returned to something near normal after the surprise diagnosis she'd received. That was nearly two years after Robert had died so unexpectedly. Then, recently, tests showed that the treatments she'd been taking were no longer as effective as they once were.

Sitting across from the doctor, she held Anya's hand as he told her the news. "I'm very sorry, Ms. Kakos. We've exhausted all accepted treatments for your condition as well as a few experimental ones. Your only recourse now is a transplant. I can add your name to the database, and as you have one of the most common blood types, a compatible heart could be found fairly quickly."

"And if I decided against the transplant, how long do I have?"

"Four to six months is average for a woman of your age and physical condition."

Elisabeta glanced at Anya, glimpsing a single tear well up and slide down her cheek. Somehow, it gave her the courage to do what had to be done. Sitting up straight, Elisabeta felt a sense of peace for the first time in years. "For me to live, someone else must die, and that will not do at all. There will be no transplant, doctor."

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

**Avengers**

**Budapest**

**Chapter 8**

**After the Fall of SHIELD**

Early afternoon in Budapest brought sunshine and a light breeze with temperatures in the seventies. Warm enough for Clint, Natasha, Banner, Hill and Yates to sit on the patio. Across the square, Clint saw a SHIELD agent sipping coffee and reading a book. Two more were at the café next door. All had been cast adrift by the fall of SHIELD. He didn't blame his partner for her part in the destruction of SHIELD because he would've done the same in her place. To have done otherwise would have allowed HYDRA to kill millions of innocent people. After fending off the Chitauri, there was no way in hell they'd let home-grown terrorists succeed where Loki and his allies had failed.

Clint munched on one of the mini pastries provided by the server, letting his gaze scan the crowd for friendlies as well as enemies. HYDRA had grown inside SHIELD for seventy years and only Fury had seen it. How then was Clint going to tell the good guys from the bad guys? He'd been working and sleeping with a HYDRA agent and didn't know it. The betrayal he felt had a target, but Adele was dead. Clint needed someplace to focus the anger, someone or something to shoot at, to hit with a closed fist. Anything. But here he was sitting in a café in Budapest, drinking beer and eating tiny desserts.

He stopped in the process of choosing another pastry when he saw a familiar face. As she got closer, he pulled a name out of his memory file. Anya Jakob, companion and personal assistant to an asset from his last mission in Budapest, Elisabeta Kakos. When plan A fell through, Clint had been in the process of working out the details of a hastily concocted plan B when he met Elisabeta. By some coincidence, she was attending the very party he had to gain access to in order to meet with his contact. He'd turned on the charm and she fell for it. To this day, he felt bad about using her, but not as bad as he thought he should, if that made any sense.

At various points during their relationship, Clint had gotten the feeling that _she_ was using _him_, and not just to make her friends jealous. Despite her denial that sex would ever come into the picture, they had spent his last night in Budapest making mad, passionate love.

The moment Anya recognized him, Clint wanted to play it off, tell her that she was mistaken, but he knew better. Though she gave the impression of being timid, she had a strong will. If she felt that she was right, she would persist in dogging him, and they didn't need that sort of attention on them now. The SHIELD agents had to stay as far under the radar as possible until they could figure out what to do.

Anya tentatively approached Clint, sitting with Natasha and Banner. She stared wide-eyed at him. "Mr. York?"

Clint picked up his beer and shrugged. "Who?"

"You are Ryland York, are you not?" She spoke excellent English and her voice was soft, almost as if she didn't believe what she was seeing. "You have the…" she touched her chin indicating his beard, "…but still I recognize you. I am Anya. Anya Jakob? I work for Elisabeta Kakos."

As if he'd just recognized her, Clint came around the table to greet the young woman, kissing first the right then the left cheek before offering her a seat at the table. "Yes, of course, Ms. Jakob. My apologies for not recognizing you. These are my friends, Ashley Parker and her fiancé, John Malloy."

He ordered her a tall glass of iced tea, a small detail that his brain had dredged up across the years. "It's good to see you again. How is Elisabeta faring these days?"

Anya looked at him then dropped her eyes. "She is not well, Mr. York. The past couple of years, she has been under a doctor's care. Just a few months ago, we were told that she has only a few more months to live."

The news hit Clint right between the eyes, momentarily stunning him. "I'm so sorry. Is she close to her family?"

Behind her glasses, Anya's eyes teared up. She took a drink of her tea then set it aside. "She has no one. Her son and his wife were killed in a car accident last year. They had no children. Both she and her husband had no siblings. I have taken over the care of the garden she loves so much. On good days, I wheel her onto the patio so she can see the tulips, peonies and lilacs blooming. They're her favorites."

To Clint, Anya hadn't changed much. Her hair was still a dull medium brown color worn just below the shoulders in an unflattering ponytail. The clothing style she preferred, skirts that covered her knees, cotton blouses and flat, utilitarian shoes, made her look much older than the early thirties he knew her to be. Lines of fatigue creased the corners of her eyes, which he now saw were a brilliant green.

"Until a few weeks ago, we continued to host her tea parties once a month. However, she no longer wishes for her friends to see her wasting away." In an uncharacteristic show of emotion, Anya grabbed Clint's hand and squeezed. "Would you please come to see her? Just for a few minutes. Elisabeta enjoyed your company very much, Mr. York, and I know she would benefit greatly from a visit."

Clint tried to catch Natasha's eye, but she and Banner had moved to another table while he and Anya had been talking. "Of course. Why don't I come to supper tonight?"

The young woman sat up straight and smiled for the first time. The transformation was amazing. "That would be perfect. I'll go now and tell her. At eight tonight, then."

Anya quickly finished her tea and left. Clint watched her walk away and a moment later, he pushed back from the table and got to his feet. He had to move. Walk, run, anything.

"Clint?"

At the curb, he stopped, and without turning, said, "Not a _word_, Nat."

Clint took off down the street, walking fast, not looking where he was going. He just had to keep moving. But no matter where he went, there was no escaping the fact that a piece of his past he'd hoped would stay buried had just caught up with him.

~~O~~

Sitting close together, Natasha and Bruce pretended to be so wrapped up each other they were oblivious to what was going on around them. In reality, she was eavesdropping on the conversation Clint was having with Anya about Elisabeta. Her partner projected just the right amount of interest in someone he'd known for a few days several years ago, and only recalled when he heard the name. Though she'd never say so out loud and certainly not to his face, she felt sorry for her partner. He had cared about Elisabeta, though not to the point of loving her. If he hadn't, he'd have included her name in the mission report and wouldn't have hung around after the mission was over. He might've slept with her, but the fact that Natasha had to push him to do so spoke to his mind-set.

In the coming months, or however long it took to rebuild what HYDRA had forced them to destroy, they all needed to be sharp, to keep their heads in the game. Clint needed to put this bit of his past to rest or it would always be there at the back of his mind that he hadn't seen Elisabeta one last time before she died.

Bruce took her hand, leaning close to whisper in her ear. "He'll be okay, Tash. You don't always have to pick up the pieces."

"If I don't, then who will? He needs…"

"Clint _needs_ to learn how to do that for himself, and he won't if you keep doing it for him." Bruce shifted in his chair. "I know you've been watching each other's backs for a while now, and that's a good thing. You'll continue to do so for a long time to come. But that's _work_. He needs to figure out how to handle personal matters without a crutch."

"So that's what I am now? A crutch?" Natasha wasn't angry at Bruce for stating the obvious. What he said made a lot of sense. It was time for the Hawk to leave the nest, to fly on his own. She brushed the backs of her fingers down his bristly cheek and smiled. "The beard has to go, _lyubimaya_. You look like a grizzly bear."

He cuddled her close, rubbing his cheek against hers making her laugh. "I thought I was your _plyushevyy mishka_."

"Mmm. You are." Clasping his chin with her fingers, she rubbed his nose with hers. "_Pozhaluysta_, _lyubimaya_. Go shave."

"As you wish, _moya lee-u-bov._"

~~O~~

By his estimate, Clint had gone almost a half mile before slowing down enough to think through his meeting with Anya.

The safe house had been created and stocked long before the mission to Budapest that gave Clint and Natasha very different memories. No doubt she'd been talking about fighting their way out when outnumbered by mercenaries. Such an event was SOP on most of their ops, and Clint barely gave it a second thought.

For him, the memory that stood out above the rest was Elisabeta Kakos. Meeting her hadn't been a part of the plan at all. A case of mistaken identity had put the vivacious older woman in the midst of an operation to stop their mark from selling illegal arms and ammunition stolen from a classified military base. The meeting with the mark had been scheduled to take place at a celebration being hosted by one of the interested parties, and Clint had to find a way to get himself invited. That's where Elisabeta had come in.

He put those memories aside when he realized that his subconscious had led him where he needed to be. Checking his look in the reflection of the glass, Clint rubbed a hand through his beard. When he first met Elisabeta, he had a goatee, and while she didn't say anything, he got the sense that she preferred clean-shaven men. So, standing in front of the mens clothing store, he made plans. Buy a suit and all the accessories, and while the alterations are being made, go to the barber shop for a haircut and shave.

He stepped inside the shop and was immediately set upon by an overdressed salesman who looked him over, wrinkling his nose as if he smelled something offensive. Clint had showered that morning so he knew it wasn't that.

"May I help you?"

In Hungarian, Clint said, "My luggage was lost by the airline. I have an important meeting to get to and need a suit, tie, shirt, shoes, socks. Everything."

Again, the man looked him over, and just as he was about to ask Clint to leave, the archer held up a wad of Euros that would choke a rhino. The man's eyes widened. "Of course, sir."

"I'll need it delivered to my hotel no later than seven."

"But, sir, the alterations alone will take…" Clint held up the cash again, and the man sighed, obviously torn, though only for a moment. "_Seven_, you said?"

~~O~~

Anya rushed home to tell Elisabeta the news. Her employer and friend had only mentioned Ryland York on a few occasions the past few years and not at all since the most recent diagnosis. It was always as if Elisabeta and York shared a secret that neither could be compelled to tell anyone under any circumstances. Anya could always tell when Elisabeta was thinking of the night she spent with him because of the way she moved and her expression. The bounce and slight swagger in her walk, and the smile that said, "I have a secret, and I'm not telling."

On several occasions, Anya had tried to get the information out of her, but had always been unsuccessful. All she knew was that Elisabeta had not been the same after York left. Before meeting the younger man, she hadn't exactly been shy. Just not as outgoing and carefree as she was following her time with the younger man.

Knowing that her time was short, Elisabeta had spent the past few weeks hosting small get-togethers with her friends. It was as if she were saying good-bye. Elisabeta had once said that it was too bad that York had chosen not to return to Budapest as she would've liked to see him one last time.

For weeks, Anya had thought about how to make Elisabeta's wish come true, and she'd been thwarted at every turn. Her Internet investigations had turned up several men with the name Ryland York, most of which were living in the United States. But none were the right Ryland York. Finding him in the café off the square was fortuitous. She could hardly contain herself when he agreed to come for a visit.

Opening the front door, Anya carried the shopping to the kitchen, setting it and her purse on the bench in the breakfast nook. Cook was nowhere in sight, and that usually meant she was in the garden picking vegetables, herbs and spices.

The stereo was playing in the library, indicating that Elisabeta hadn't gone to lie down as she usually did this time of day. Anya tapped on the door and entered. "Elisabeta?"

"Over here."

The young woman found her employer sitting in a soft chair that was kind to her thin frame. In the past few months, Elisabeta's appetite had waned and she'd lost weight. Not so much that her clothing no longer fit, but they were a little loose. Easily fixed with a needle and thread, at least for tonight. "I have some good news. You're having a guest for supper tonight."

Elisabeta sighed wearily and closed her book. "I don't want to see anyone, Anya. I've said all my farewells. There's no need to drag it out."

"Ah, but you haven't seen this person, Lisbet. Today, in the square, I saw that handsome Mr. York."

"Oh?"

Though the single word was said with disinterest, as though she'd forgotten, Anya could see the light of curiosity in her eyes. "He's coming to spend the evening with you, and will arrive at eight." She held out her hand. "Come. I'll help you get ready."

Elisabeta took Anya's hand and together they walked down the hall to the bedroom, Elisabeta dragging her feet. "I don't feel up to company, Anya. Call and tell him not to come."

"I can't do that." She had Elisabeta sit on the vanity chair then went into the closet. "I don't have his number, nor did he say where he was staying."

"You did that on purpose," her friend accused good naturedly, turning to look in the mirror.

"Yes, I did. That way, you couldn't back out." Anya pulled out several outfits and put them back. "What is it the Americans say? Ah. You will knock his socks off tonight."

The sound of drawers opening and closing revealed Elisabeta's true feelings, as did the opening of her jewelry box. "Don't make such a fuss, _kis róka_. We'll have a glass of wine and talk for a while."

Anya finally made a decision on what Elisabeta would wear, but didn't want her to see until she was ready to get dressed. Hanging the clothing on the back of the door, she chose shoes to go with it then returned to the bedroom. "I'll start your bath and don't forget to shave your legs."

Over a year ago, a walk-in bathtub had been installed so that Elisabeta wouldn't require assistance with bathing. It had done wonders for her self-esteem as she disliked being a burden to others.

Elisabeta huffed. "Anya! It's just wine and talk. There won't be any activities for which I will need to shave my legs."

"Humph. That's what you said the last time Mr. York was here and you _know_ what happened. So do it anyway or I will come in and do it for you." Elisabeta's response was covered by the sound of the water coming on. It was just as well. Since the last visit to the doctor, her friend had taken to using language she'd never heard from her until then, and only when highly angered or frustrated. Anya was shocked the first couple of times. Until she learned that it was a part of the grieving process. For Elisabeta, it was a way of bargaining.

_Let me live and I will stop._

After a while, it amused Anya to see people's faces when she said the words.

Returning to the closet, she brought out the clothes she'd chosen for tonight and laid them on the foot of the bed.

**Later That Evening**

Standing in front of Elisabeta's building, Clint gazed up at the stylish façade, recalling the first time he'd seen it. She had sent a long, black limousine to pick him up at his hotel and bring him to her home so they could go to the celebration together.

Not much had changed since that day. Not here, anyway. Inside, Clint had changed quite a bit, especially since the invasion. He no longer took anything for granted except that his mind was filled with demons from the past. Now it was time to put one of those demons to rest.

Putting on a bored smile, Clint stepped into the lobby and gave his name to the concierge. After checking the list, Clint was permitted to enter. He walked to the end of the hall, made a left and stood for a moment in front of the subtly elegant door. He brushed a hand through his hair, now cut short, and straightened his already perfectly aligned dark blue tie with thin peach and Wedgwood blue stripes. At exactly eight, he rang the bell.

The click of heels on the hardwood floors approached and stopped. Anya opened the door and smiled brightly. "Thank you for coming, Mr. York." She stood back so he could enter, softly closing the door behind him and clasping her hands together in front. Her eyes took in the small bouquet of flowers he held in one hand, giving him a nod of approval for his good manners. She smiled brightly when he pulled three flowers free and handed them to her. "For you, Anya, because every woman should be given flowers for no other reason…"

"Than because she's a woman." They both smiled in remembrance. "Elisabeta was excited to hear you were back in town."

Having already made a quick visual inspection of the foyer to ascertain that they were alone, Clint lowered his voice, "Are you sure she's up to having company? I can come back tomorrow."

"She's fine, and would like for you to join her in the library for a glass of wine before supper."

Clint knew the way, but allowed Anya to guide him. Before entering, he adjusted his cuffs, resisting the urge to do another hair check as Anya quietly walked away. When she was gone, he knocked and entered without waiting for a response. To do otherwise would not be his alias's MO. Not Clint's either, but that wasn't important. Elisabeta was the only thing that mattered, and for her, he would be Ryland York one last time.

Elisabeta was standing at the double doors looking out at the garden. She turned and smiled a welcome as he crossed the floor, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet that lay in the center of the room. He took her offered hand and leaned down to kiss both cheeks, noting that she no longer wore her wedding rings. "It's good to see you again, Elisabeta."

He presented the flowers and she held them to her nose for a moment. "And you, Ryland."

She placed the blossoms in a vase on the table next to the sofa that Clint remembered as being very comfortable, especially for making love. Elisabeta was remembering that night as well, to go by the cheeky grin flashed over her shoulder. When she faced him again, and with the lamp's diffused light shining over her, Clint could see that she'd lost weight, though he wasn't surprised, considering her illness. And in spite of the weakness she no doubt felt, she'd taken pains to appear healthy. She wore her hair shorter now, above her shoulders. It was shot through with strands of silver that suited her.

As always, her clothing exhibited her sophisticated style without being obvious. She wore a leather skirt that went down to her knees. To Clint, the color looked like a darker shade of butterscotch pudding, which he loathed. On her, the color looked…luscious was the only word that seemed to fit, making him wish for one small taste. Over it, a flowing blouse the same color as the peach stripe in his tie and was drawn loosely to her waist with a slender leopard print belt that matched the heels. A smooth gold bangle hung around her left wrist where she used to wear an elegant watch. Matching earrings and necklace completed the picture.

When Elisabeta moved, she did so carefully, as if no longer as sure of herself as she once was. Or maybe she hadn't worn heels in a while. Again taking her hand, Clint lay it and its mate on his shoulders. With both hands free, he lightly grasped her waist and drew her to him, his mouth coming down to claims hers before she could object.

At first, she pressed the heels of her palms into the space between his shoulders and collarbones, and pushed, trying to separate them. He was a patient man though, and soon, Elisabeta relaxed into their embrace, and kissed him back. The sensation of her hands gliding over the skin of his neck to touch his face felt erotic, though she couldn't have meant it that way. His senses returned quickly, and he ended the kiss, resting his forehead against hers for a moment. Moving back so he could look into her eyes, he saw the faintest flicker of desire in them, mirroring his own. They smiled sheepishly. Clint was the first to speak. "That was a much better greeting."

"Yes."

This time, when she pushed, he released her, keeping hold of one hand and tucking it around his elbow. "Shall we have that wine now?"

After seeing that she was seated, Clint poured the wine already opened and waiting on the bar. Now that they'd broken the ice, so to speak, the tense atmosphere vanished, and they were once again at ease in each other's company.

Anya came in some time later to announce that supper was ready. Elisabeta was laughing at a story Clint had told about an incident from while he was with Carson's. The young woman's eyes widened at the sound, telling Clint that there hadn't been much laughter recently. That he'd been able to bring it back, even for one night, made coming here again worth the time and effort.

**Later that Evening**

Clint discarded his jacket, hanging it on the antique mahogany coat rack in the corner. In the breast pocket was the proof he would show Elisabeta if she doubted anything he told her tonight. He got up to pour them each a glass of Pálinka, a traditional fruit brandy, passed hers over and moved back a few steps to give himself some distance. Inhaling the bouquet, he waited for Elisabeta to do the same. Briefly, he considered making a toast, but the time-honored "_Egészségére_," meaning "to your health," would be in bad taste, considering that she had so little time left.

Watching for a signal, her blue-green eyes locked with his, and he knew they were thinking the same thing. Keeping eye contact with him, she put the glass to her lips and knocked it back. Clint followed her lead then set his glass beside hers on the small table to her left. She crossed her arms, sliding her hands up and down her biceps as if she were cold, but for her, it meant she was thinking. Too bad he had to give her _more_ to think about. "There are some things about me you should know, Elisabeta."

Her smile was warmly affectionate. "I know everything I _need_ to about you."

Clint was genuinely surprised at her statement. "Oh?"

"Mm-hm. You are a man who _needs_ to be needed. You seek to protect those around you, whether strangers or friends, though they are more than capable of looking after themselves. You are strong-willed, loyal, compassionate, and much smarter than you let on."

Smiling sheepishly, Clint looked at the floor while rubbing his hands together. "If I agree with you, then I'll sound arrogant, and denying it would seem disingenuous. Either way, I'm screwed." They both laughed at that, knowing it was the truth. "You deserve to know everything about me, the good and the not so good."

"Ryland…"

Sitting beside her, Clint took Elisabeta's hand between both of his. "My name _isn't_ Ryland York."

**TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **This is the final chapter of "Budapest." Many thanks to all who read and reviewed.

I'll be starting on something new soon that will probably be my NaNo project, so stay tuned.

Namaste,

Sunny

**Avengers**

**Budapest**

**Chapter 9**

Elisabeta grabbed Ryland's fingers where they lay on her thigh and squeezed hard, trying not to laugh. "Yes, I know."

He looked at her as though she were mad. "When did you…"

Releasing him, Elisabeta handed over their glasses for refills. When he returned, she held hers for a moment, watching the light glinting off the surface of the liquid. "I've always known,_ k__edvesem_." 

"Why didn't you _say_ something?"

"What would've been the point? I needed a charming man to show off to my friends, and you fulfilled that role admirably. Your name was of little consequence. And if I had, there was the possibility that you'd change your mind, and I couldn't have that." She brought the glass of brandy to her mouth and drank half. Her confession had thrown him, and it gave her a small thrill that she could render such a supremely confident man speechless, even for a few moments. He finished his drink, reached across her to set the glass on the table. After a moment he chuckled then started to laugh. The sound tapered off as he sat back, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close. He dropped a soft kiss on her temple. With one finger, she toyed with the edge of his vest. "What is your real name?"

"Clint. You can call me Ryland, if you want."

Picking up her glass, she held it in her hand, debating if she should finish it and have a third. Her doctor didn't expressly forbid alcohol while taking her medications, but he also didn't tell her she could. "Perhaps I should go first. I have a feeling that _my_ confession is the shorter one."

Clint huffed out a long breath. "You're right."

Taking another sip, she let the warmth of the brandy slide down her throat. Turning slightly to face him, Elisabeta rested her elbow on the back of the sofa. "My friend Ursola runs an escort agency in addition to her event planning. She arranged for me to meet Ryland York. However, I did not find him at all suitable so I sent him away. Then, I saw you coming toward the café. Asking if you were Ryland York was the first thing I could think of to introduce myself. When you denied being him, I'd would ask you to join me for a drink as a precursor to inviting you to be my escort to the celebration. Imagine my surprise when you claimed to _be_ Ryland York. The rest, you know."

"I thought about telling you the truth, but didn't for the same reason. If you knew I wasn't who you thought I was, then you might kick me to the curb, and I _really_ needed to be at that party."

"Why is that?"

Getting to his feet, Clint downed his drink in one gulp and set the glass aside. He was doing it again. Whenever strong emotions were present, he seemed to distance himself from those around him, unless he was playing a part, like he had from the moment they met. At the moment, however, he was being himself. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he went to look out the window at the moon playing peekaboo with the clouds. "That's a long story. It's best if I start from the beginning."

Getting to her feet, Elisabeta crossed the library floor, wanting to provide him with comfort the way he'd done for her. A dizzy spell came over her just as she reached Clint's side. He caught her, and despite her protests, lifted her in his arms. She looked into his eyes so close to hers, the concern sincere and unaffected. The feeling of warmth all along her right side brought to mind things she didn't want to remember, but did anyway. This body which had betrayed her by failing when she had so much to live for was doing it again. She tightened her arms slightly, feeling a responsive tautness in his fingers curling into her ribs. Parting her lips in invitation, she waited for him to take what she was offering. He wanted to-she could hardly miss the signs-but hesitated. Taking control, she drew his head down and kissed him. When she requested access, his lips parted and their tongues touched.

~~O~~

Though Clint had promised himself that this wouldn't happen, the moment his lips touched Elisabeta's, he knew he'd give her whatever she wanted. The taste of the brandy on her tongue electrified him, as if the alcohol were a conductor of sexual electricity. It flowed through his veins making him powerless to resist when Elisabeta softly whispered, "Please make love with me."

He carried her down the hall to her bedroom. She reached down to open the door, and once inside, Clint kicked it shut. Her request that he make love with her hadn't been said with the same force she'd used before, though the demand came through loud and clear. No hesitation. And that had been his undoing. He wanted to rush, to bring them both to completion quickly in order to appease the call of his body, but Clint forced himself to go slow. To make certain Elisabeta had one last good memory to get her through the end of her days.

Carefully, as if she were a delicate piece of art, Clint lay her on the bed, and quickly removed his vest. Then, as his hands began to unbuckle his belt, Elisabeta rolled to her knees and inched to the edge of the mattress. This brought them face to face, and she wasted no time in taking advantage by kissing him again while her nimble fingers opened the belt, and undid the front of his pants.

Not letting their mouths lose contact, Clint returned the favor by removing the belt around her waist and slipping under the floaty blouse to touch her skin. She gasped and her fingers went to work on the buttons of his shirt.

When she parted the sides of his shirt, Clint reluctantly moved his arms down and back so she could push the material off his shoulders. Then, with lightning quickness, he grasped the hem of her blouse and lifted it off over her head, tossing it to land somewhere behind him. They continued to alternate, and soon were under the covers engaged in a dance as old as time.

Hours later, with Elisabeta nestled within the circle of his arms, Clint was kicking himself for letting his body call the shots when he'd promised himself he wouldn't. Looking down at her face, he saw a small smile of satisfaction. Some of the lines of weariness had smoothed out, and the underlying air of annoyance seemed to have vanished. He hesitated to call it anger, though that seemed the best word for it. Resentment and antagonism worked as well. All of them indicating that she'd somehow stalled at that step in the grieving process, telling Clint that perhaps the reason that she hadn't succumbed to the illness was because she hadn't yet reached the final step: acceptance. There was no need for her to continue to suffer. If he was able to help her take that final step by making love with her, then he would willingly and enthusiastically do so again.

Clint turned out the bedside light, tucked the covers around Elisabeta's shoulders, and kissed her on the forehead, but didn't go to sleep. A couple of hours later, she began to stir. Tilting her head back, she smiled at him. "_Bocsánat_. I haven't been sleeping well lately."

"Don't be sorry. I like watching you sleep." The smile she flashed warmed him more than the brandy. "Feel up to talking?"

She chuckled and snuggled closer. "Right now, I feel as if I'll live forever."

Clint rubbed his chin on the top of her head. "Good, because I have some ideas for after you've heard my life story."

Elisabeta's hand resting on his chest moved. She lightly brushed her fingertips over his cheek and into his hair, nipping at the short strands. "You don't have to tell me, Clint. It won't change anything."

"Most of what of what you think you know about me is lies, and you deserve to know the truth."

He felt her grin against his shoulder. "So you _don't_ make your living as a gigolo?"

Clint moved the hand on her ribs up and down feeling each bump. "No. Far from it."

She sighed, feigning disappointment. "That's too bad, because you're so good at it."

Chuckling, he tightened his hold briefly. "Thanks. I think." He let the lighthearted atmosphere fade. "My older brother, Barney, and I were sent to an orphanage after our parents were killed in a car accident when I was six. A few years later, we ran away and joined the circus…"

~~O~~

The morning sun filtered through the curtain to touch Elisabeta on the face with its promise of a warm spring day. The clock told her it was past time to take her morning medications, but she didn't want to do it in front of Clint. He wasn't in bed with her, but his clothes and hers had been picked up and now lay on the vanity chair. She didn't want him seeing what or how much she was taking, especially in light of the story he'd told her. Though, if he was telling the truth, hiding anything from him would be impossible. He was also a very ethical man, past actions notwithstanding, and would respect her privacy.

She tossed back the covers and hurried into the bathroom without her robe, pulling the door closed behind her. Clint would knock before coming in, so she didn't have to worry. Opening the cabinet where the clean towels were kept, she took out the pill keeper, popped open the one marked for mornings and dumped the capsules and tablets into her hand. She filled a glass from the tap and used it to swallow her pills. The combination often made her nauseous unless she ate something. She would just have to take the chance.

The bedroom door opened and closed, then there was a rap on the bathroom door. "_Betta, __angyalom__. I made breakfast._"

"Just a moment," she called out. Seeing her reflection in the mirror, Elisabeta grabbed the brush and ran it through her hair to tame it. She splashed water on her face, dried off, slipped on the robe hanging on the back of the door, and put on a sunny smile before joining him. Clint was holding a tray with two cups, a teapot and two plates with slices of toast covered in jam.

"It's not much because I didn't want Cook to be pissed that I used all the eggs."

Since he obviously intended to feed her breakfast in bed, she obediently got in and pulled the covers up to her waist. Clint set the tray over her lap then went around to get in the other side, sitting on top of the covers. "This is fine, Clint. I don't eat much in the mornings."

When they'd both eaten and the tea was gone, Elisabeta felt his eyes on her. He wiped his mouth and lay the napkin on the tray. "Any questions?"

"About what you told me? No. I saw the videos from the invasion and everything else. It was a terrible thing to see."

"Even worse to experience. Especially the destruction of everything I've dedicated my life to."

She gripped his hand, letting him feel her sorrow for all he'd lost, reflecting on the reversal of their roles. He'd always been the one to provide comfort. Now it was her turn. "At least it prevented the deaths of so many innocent people. I find it appalling that such evil could exist."

"Oh, it does, believe me. And if my life had taken a different turn…"

Elisabeta stopped him with a finger to his lips. "But it didn't. You're here, and I for one am glad that you're one of the good guys or we might never have met."

His smile of appreciation turned into a chuckle. "You have jam," he pointed, and when she tried to wipe it away, he stayed her hand, and leaned forward. "Let me."

Clint used his clever tongue to remove the spot of jam then captured her lips in that way he had, making her feel womanly and cherished. His arms drew her close, and when his hand slipped inside her robe, she gasped and clutched at him. Through the haze of arousal, she heard a crash, then nothing as he once again worked his particular brand of magic on her body and senses.

**At the Hotel**

Clint slid the keycard into the slot and let himself into the room. Standing just inside, he thought how impersonal and cold it felt to be here alone. He'd left Elisabeta sleeping, saying a curt good morning to Anya and Cook as he left. Guilt nipped at his heels as he tossed the vest and jacket on the bed. Kicking off his shoes, he undressed and went to get a shower.

He'd just come from the bathroom when there was a knock on the door. Angry that he'd let his body make the decisions last night, he flung the door open. "_What?_"

Without a word, Natasha handed him one of the cups of coffee she carried, giving him a sympathetic smile that told him all he needed to know, that she was available if he wanted to talk. Flicking her eyes to the side in a prearranged signal, she said, "John and I will be going to breakfast soon, if you'd like to join us."

Just for a moment, Clint thought about refusing, but if he did that, he'd most likely spend the time alone kicking his own ass. "I'll meet you there. The diner?"

"Actually, I was thinking of that little café just off the river. Thirty minutes?" The restaurant was the halfway point between the hotel and the safe house.

Nodding, Clint sipped the coffee, closing the door after giving her a short nod. Setting the coffee aside, he went to the closet and pulled out all his clothes, leaving only a single change on the foot of the bed next to the suit he'd worn the night before. He'd paid a hefty fee to have the alterations done quickly. They had to travel light so he couldn't take it with him, nor could he leave it in the room. The hotel had an incinerator where he could dispose of it on the way to the café to finalize the plans for moving to the safe house.

**A Few Days Later**

It was after midnight and Clint was on watch. Somehow, though he'd been in charge of setting the schedule, he'd drawn midnight to 0400 when nothing ever happened. Pulling the laptop to him, he propped his feet on the edge of the console and started surfing for music. A pop-up ad appeared in the middle of the screen. With an annoyed huff, he took steps to keep it from happening again.

When he returned to the music site, he gave the news feeds a cursory glance, then something caught his eye. Sitting up, he put his feet on the floor and clicked on the link provided, quickly scanning the article. He slammed the laptop and rushed from the communications room, snatching up a set of keys on the way out.

~~O~~

The day was nearing its end when Clint finally returned to the Bunker. Natasha was waiting for him at the secret entrance and looking none too pleased. In the past, she would've come looking for him. However, it had probably been Banner's idea to give him some time to come back on his own. _I owe Banner one._

Without a word, he breezed past her, cut through the control room and down the hall to his cubicle. Relentless, she followed him, not speaking, lurking in the doorway while he shoved what few possessions he had into a duffle bag and zipped it.

He hoped she'd get bored and leave, but no such luck. She blocked the opening, using her glare on one of the milder settings that conveyed concern as well as annoyance and frustration. "Where were you?"

Glaring back until she moved out of the way, Clint strode quickly down the hall. "I had business to take care of."

"What kind of business?"

"Personal business." Natasha grabbed his arm, yanking him to a stop. Apparently he wouldn't be able to get on with his life until he told her what she wanted to know. "I had to go out. Notice that I'm using my 'I don't want to talk about it' voice, and let it go."

He took off again and she stayed with him. "Is this still about Adele?"

Coming to a stop, Clint let out a long sigh. Without looking, he knew she was gloating over getting her way. "No. I got bored on watch so I started surfing the 'net."

"And?" Grabbing his arm, Natasha forced him to look at her, which he did reluctantly.

"I found an obituary for Elisabeta. She died in her sleep two days after we had dinner." Natasha's hand found his, holding on tight. "I went to offer my condolences to Anya then to the gravesite and just sat there for a while." Silently, Clint thanked his partner for pushing him to talk because he really did feel better. "I told Elisabeta."

He felt Natasha's shock in the way her shoulders stiffened. "What did you tell her?"

Head down, he looked at his feet then up to his partner's face. "Everything, Nat. I told her _everything._" Clint waved a hand at the world in general, snorting humorlessly. "About me, SHIELD, the invasion, HYDRA. The funny part is she already knew I wasn't Ryland York."

He rubbed both hands down his face and chuckled. "She knew from the beginning. When the real Ryland York arrived, she didn't like his looks so she sent him packing. Then, when she saw me, she hoped I would be so flattered by her boldness that I'd agree go to the party with her. It threw her a little, when I claimed to _be_ York so we both kept the fiction going because it served our purposes. I got into the party and she had a charming date. _Her_ words, not _mine_."

Natasha looked back and smiled. "And yet another woman falls for the Barton charisma. What about Anya? What did _she_ say?"

"She still thinks I'm York, and I didn't see any reason to tell her otherwise. The poor girl's been through enough. Should get a little better though."

"Oh?"

He adjusted the set of his feet. "Yeah. I hacked into the probate court's files. Except for moderate bequeaths to the other employees, Anya is the sole heir to Elisabeta's hundred million dollar estate. The attorneys should be giving her the news any day now. I just hope she doesn't end up with some gold-digging creep."

"There's an easy way to make sure that doesn't happen."

A slow smile dimpled Natasha's cheeks and Clint was instantly on his guard. "How?"

"Marry her yourself, of course."

Though the very thought of marrying _anyone_ made him start to hyperventilate, Clint managed to appear to be thinking it over. Then, he shook his head. "Wouldn't work. I'll be gone most of the time, and she deserves to have someone who's there for her every day."

Natasha made a quick recovery, giving him a knowing smile. "But you're going to keep an eye on her."

Clint shrugged and crossed his arms, adding a smirk for effect. "Yeah."

Natasha gave him a nod as she left, and Clint was just a little surprised to realize that talking about Elisabeta had made him feel better instead of worse. Or was it because he'd confessed all to the older woman knowing that she wouldn't breathe a word of it to anyone? No. His reason for telling her hadn't been because she was dying and would take his secrets to the grave. He told her because he didn't want lies between them any longer.

Many times, Clint had wished his life had been different, but then _he_ would be different. When Coulson found him in Texas and invited him to be a part of SHIELD, it had been a turning point in his life. For the first time ever, he was being forced to see beyond his narrow view of life with himself as the center of the universe. There was a war on, and Coulson was asking him to choose sides. If he'd chosen the other side, he wouldn't have befriended and lost Coulson. He wouldn't have brought Natasha from the dark side, and she never would've met Banner.

And Clint wouldn't have met Elisabeta. Now she was gone, and although he was sad, his life was richer for having known her, something for which he would always be thankful.

**Several Weeks Later**

**At the Playground**

Sitting in the corner of the mess hall that Clint had come to think of as his, the archer stared into his coffee cup and ignored the eggs, bacon and toast. He pushed the silverware around while his left heel tapped a rapid rhythm on the floor.

Exhaling loudly, he slumped down in his seat, his eyes scanning the room. Natasha and Banner were sitting with their heads close together making plans to return to Sao Paulo. Near the exit, that little weasel Koenig shared a table with Hill, both holding tablets and speaking earnestly. Probably working out a new schedule of drills for the agents that had finally found their way here. At another table, Decker, and his SO, Cooper, were digging into their food as if they were starving. Knowing Coop, he probably had Decker out running laps at 0500, and pounding on a punching bag at 0630. Yates was still on light duty for another week or so, giving him lots of free time.

Laughter drew his attention to Agent Skye in the company of Agent Triplett. How could she _not_ have a last name? So she didn't like the one given to her by the nuns at the St. Agnes Orphanage. Big deal. Get over it and get a new one. First _and_ last.

Until Yates was fit for duty, Clint had nothing much to do but work out, and consult with Coulson, May, Natasha and a few other high ranking agents on how to bring SHIELD back to its former glory. The most troubling thing was the spells Coulson was having where he carved intricate schematics into the wall of his office. No one seemed to know if they were a side effect of the GH.325 or something else. But if it was the serum, then wouldn't Skye be doing it too?

Leo Fitz had finally come out of his coma, and not long after, Simmons left. She thought it would make Fitz's recovery easier, but not that Clint could see. The scientist stayed in his lab all the time, even sleeping there, and talked to himself way more than a normal person. But then, most science nerds were weird. He heard that Fitz had gone to see Ward, to demonstrate what it was like to experience hypoxia. Fitz could've killed Ward, but he didn't. Coulson wasn't happy and said so.

And Fury. Clint had been thinking about him lately, wondering where he'd gone and what he was doing. In his opinion, they needed the former director's help before the world went to hell in a hand basket. Research. He needed to research his former boss to see if he could find something in his past that would give a clue as to the man's location.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Clint scarfed his breakfast, and refilled his travel mug that Koenig insisted that everyone use. _The carpets are new, and cleaning them costs a fortune._

Returning to his room, Clint booted up his computer, now with unlimited access, blocked the server from tracking his searches and got to work. He snorted to himself, finding humor in the fact that someone who was off the grid of a grid that's already off the grid was looking for someone who's so far off the grid that the grid ended five miles back. And if that didn't confuse the hell out of him, nothing would. By the end of the day, Clint had a list of names and addresses. The leads were slim, but it was better than nothing.

Opening his email, Clint wrote a short note to Coulson, Natasha and Yates, scheduled them for delivery at noon the next day, and started packing. He only took what he really needed, two changes of clothes, his bow and quiver, and his favorite knives.

From the bedside table, he picked up a platinum keychain. Hanging from it was a teardrop shaped chunk of Lucite. Imbedded in the center was a shard of the bone china set that he and Elisabeta had smashed on the kitchen floor. To him, it had been like a rite of passage, so to speak. The dawning of a new and exhilarating life in which she was free from the constraints of her old one. Free to navigate her own course. And her sexual awakening had been only one small part of that.

The keychain had fallen from the pocket of the suit he wore to dinner with Elisabeta just a few days before she passed away. She'd obviously placed it there while he was making breakfast. As a memento, it was perfect. Something that he could look at and smile over the memories invoked. The keychain went into an inside pocket so it wouldn't get lost.

After a good night's sleep, Clint left the compound, drove into town and made his way methodically down the list he'd compiled, traveling all over North America, feeling more and more frustrated at every turn. His MO was to watch and wait in order to determine if Fury was indeed at a particular location. Clint was a patient man, but it was wearing thin. So thin that by the time he reached the Hamptons, he decided on a more direct approach. He would knock on the door, ask for Fury, and if the former SHIELD director wasn't here, Clint would move on.

As houses in the Hamptons went, the home was not exceptionally large or overly ornate. Nothing even close to the home where Clint had met with Marja Szabo. A long driveway led guests through a painstakingly maintained garden. Others might have been tempted to line the drive with sculpted topiary, but none were to be seen. The design was simple yet tasteful and elegant.

The exterior of the Italian Mediterranean style home was sophisticated in white with a short set of stairs that brought one to a covered vestibule. The windows that faced the driveway were arched at the top, sheer curtains covered by heavy drapes could be seen, drawn shut to block prying eyes.

Clint rang the doorbell and turned to lean his shoulder against one of the columns that flanked the steps. As big as the house was, it would probably take a while for someone to answer. To his surprise, the door opened almost immediately. Before he could turn around, he heard a female voice say, "Aren't you a little short for a Stormtrooper?"

He snorted a laugh. "Do I look like Luke Skywalker to y…" As Clint finished his turn, the woman came into sight and he momentarily forgot what he was saying. She was standing with her weight all on her right foot with the right hand even with her head, gripping the jamb. Without appearing to do so, Clint let his eyes travel down to her feet and back up to lock with hers. He estimated her age at early thirties. She wore a bright blue long sleeved top over black jeans, and sneakers that looked brand new. Her sable brown hair, parted on the left, touched her shoulders, curling up on the ends, with layers framing her face. Eyes the color of a cloudless summer day sparkled with humor, curiosity and intelligence. One perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched in question, and a playful smirk pursed her mauve colored lips. A platinum bow and arrow pendant with a small diamond in the head hung around her neck. It matched the arrow bangle around her left wrist and the arrows hanging from her ears. She was fair, her skin flawless except for tiny crinkles at the outside corners of her eyes.

"You look more like a short Han Solo, but without the furry sidekick." The woman's left arm came up, the hand settling on the upper edge of her slender hip just below the waist. Clint couldn't help staring, and he must've been at it longer than he thought because the smirk turned into a cheeky grin. "You're going to have to help me out here. Though I give the impression I can, I don't read minds. Are you looking for directions to the highway? Lord and Taylors? The Fun Center? Spiritual enlightenment? Where to find the best Oeufs en Cocotte au Saumon Fumé in Manhattan? Give me a hint or we'll be at this all day."

Her voice was smooth and well-modulated with the tell-tale New York accent. It had an undertone that came with having spent at least a year in the southwestern US. Crossing his arms, Clint let his grin mirror hers. "You a cop?"

"Staff psychologist for the city of Denver. But don't hold being a shrink against me. Everyone has to do something." She put her hand out, and he took it. "Naomi DeLuca. Gina's daughter."

"Clint Barton. I'm looking for…"

"You're here to see Nick." She turned and started across the enormous foyer. "Follow me. That way you can check out my backside as closely as you did my front." Rushing to catch up to her, Clint wanted to ask how Fury knew he'd be here, but didn't get the chance. "You have a problem with punctuality, Clint?"

"Not really. Why?"

She snorted, as if the answer were obvious and his comprehension skills minimal. "We expected you two days ago."

"Oh?"

"Nick told us you were coming," she explained. "I was so intrigued by his description that I took an extra week's vacation just so I could meet you."

Clint followed her down a long hallway that led to the back of the house. "I'm flattered."

"Don't be. I thought he was lying. But now you're here."

"And?"

Naomi stopped with her hand on the doorknob. Through the window, Clint could see a large pool house situated near the in ground pool. Stretched out in a chaise lounge, wearing baggy shorts and a white tank shirt, and reading a book, was Nick Fury. As he'd done to her earlier, Naomi gave him a leisurely and deliberate onceover before responding. "I'm reserving judgment until I get to know you better."

She pushed the door open and pulled it closed behind him. Now that he was in sight of his objective, Clint was strangely reluctant to interrupt Fury's solitude. Taking a deep breath, he walked around to the opposite side of the pool to his former superior's side.

Fury made a big show of closing the book and setting it on the table next to a pitcher of lemonade and two unused glasses. He nodded for Clint to take the vacant seat to his left, and once he was seated, Fury poured them each a glass, handed one to Clint and kept the other for himself.

Relaxing back in his seat with a sigh, Fury took a long swallow of the cold drink and Clint followed his lead. It was tart with just the right amount of sweetness to offset it.

Fury crossed his ankles, let out a long, contented breath, tilted his hat down over his eyes and said, "You're late, Agent Barton."

**The End**


End file.
